Lawyers for Carlos Jimenez said he was in fear after an agent threatened him with chemical spray, then pointed a gun at him.
Leaving his home in Ontario to work at a food bank Thursday morning, Carlos Jimenez pulled over to warn a group of federal agents that they should wrap up their stop of a car quickly because school-age children would soon gather there to take the bus, his lawyers said Sunday.
In the following moments, the attorneys said an ICE officer shot Jimenez, a U.S. citizen and father of three, from behind.
Tricia McLaughlin, a spokesperson for the Department of Homeland Security, said at the time that Jimenez had "attempted to run officers over by reversing directly at them without stopping" and that the shots were "defensive."
Jimenez, 25, was charged in federal court with assault on a federal officer. A judge released him on bond Friday.
Lawyers for Jimenez offered a counter narrative. They said that Jimenez reversed because he was afraid, then was unnecessarily shot in the back of his right shoulder, where a bullet remains lodged. The agents' actions were "unreasonably aggressive" and a violation of their own policies, said attorney Robert Simon.
Jimenez, who lives in the mobile home park along the same road, approached the officers to "tell them that there's kids that are coming out to wait for the bus," according to his lawyers.
"He was telling them, 'Excuse me. Can you guys please, you know, please wrap this up.' And immediately, the masked agent pulls out a gun and exchanges some words," said lawyer Cynthia Santiago. "[The agent is] also shaking his pepper spray."
"He's in fear, and he's trying to get out of the situation," she said. The agents and their cars had blocked one southern lane on Vineyard Avenue and jutted into a second.
"He had to reverse to get away," said Simon.
"Then there was a shot from the side, back passenger window, to the car," Santiago said. "Use of deadly force is to be used as a last resort. Coming out to communities with guns drawn is the opposite."
“I am having second thoughts, Raoul.” Alphonse’s sophisticated Parisian accent modulated oddly with the tones of his fear.
“Scared? But I know you can be so brave, Alfie. Why ruin our streak?” Raoul’s words had the effect of calming Alphonse, at least superficially. The streets of Krakow, no doubt charming and lined by townhouse gardens in the day time, grew twisting and claustrophobic in the dark. The great beauty of the city had weathered a century of stagnation and royal favor being shown to Warsaw with surprising grace; even so, Alphonse still felt nervous about the task before them that night.
“Try not to shake in your boots so much, Alfonso. A quien madruga, Dios lo ayuda.” The remark was as bitterly sarcastic as Carlos’ admonishments always were. Before Alphonse could retort, however, the Lasombra held up a fist for silence. “The house is ahead. Tienes la estaca? Raoul?”
“Obviamente. Alphonse, are you ready? Not having second thoughts?” Raoul turned his shining hazel eyes on Alphonse. The moonlight glinted off that gaze just so, as though there were an explosion of silver flame that flashed briefly within the eye itself.
“Yes.” Alphonse responded almost without intending to. The house in question, the object of trepidation, rose abruptly from a courtyard that broke the normal flow of this causeway. Its simple construction, timber and cheap masonry, belied its size; it easily dwarfed its nearest neighbors, and the high tower that rose from the back end of the property speared the moon on its conical roof. Truncated vines hung from the window casements in mock domestic vitality, but even they could not hide the fact that the building was intended for two things: standing tall and imposing over the neighborhood, and keeping potential intruders out.
To the plan, then. Carlos, all in black riding leathers and brocade, no doubt cut a threatening figure as he seemed to glide across the open yard to the house, his inky black shadow spreading out, around, and over him as he did so. Raoul strolled along as though it were a charming trip to the park; though Alphonse’s gifted eyes strained to see him as he seemed to blend and blur into the ambience of the night.
For Alphonse’s part, the next step was simple, but to the naked eye so overwhelmingly complex. So, Alphonse stepped. Once; it was enough. And with a twitch of his wrist and the feeling of the power coursing through his veins, distance blurred, and for a moment space stretched taut like a rubber band. When the tension broke, Alphonse stood in the shadow of the second floor’s overhang, staring up at the vines that hung like the broken limbs of penitents from the planter mounted on the window sill. Alphonse felt pity for them; they had been so mistreated, and for what?
But speed was of essence now. Alphonse spoke to the vines, crooning softly in the language only they knew, and they wove and stretched themselves to form a ladder for his ascent. In short order Alphonse was to the second floor. He took a brief conspiratorial look around for his companions, pushed the window open and stepped inside.
Immediately Alhponse felt the sensation of standing within the belly of the beast. The old floorboards creaked under unexpected weight, as though in greeting. His momentary fear was not allayed when an inky black claw laid suddenly across his shoulder. Stifling a shout, Alphonse turned to gaze upon the claw’s owner: Carlos.
“So jumpy, Alphonse. Try to stay focused.” When the Lasombra wished to be silent, he moved with a grace that at all other times would’ve been uncharacteristic. Alphonse silently cursed his nerves for not having adapted to Carlos’ tricks, decades into their partnership. Quickly, he scanned the dingy study for Raoul; nowhere to be seen, as of yet. Not that that was abnormal. As much as he loved to be the center of attention, Raoul’s ability to go unnoticed, even by Alphonse’s keen senses, was disconcerting.
Carlos had already taken up a position by the door. “Quick and quiet, bookworm. You know the plan.” With a cocked grin, he pushed open the old door and began to wind his way down the curving stairs, reaching the ground floor with a cloak of writhing black shadows behind him. Alphonse followed as quietly as he could, careful of squeaking boards and the poor maintenance of the whole place. They took a left through a disused dining room, and on into the darkened scullery; between two pantries stuffed with goods, they found the lever they had been told about. Carlos gave a nonplussed glance to his Tremere companion, before ratcheting down the lever and watching as a trap door that had been concealed nearby swung open slowly. Just as the ywere about to begin their descent, a loud cackle followed by a scream echoed from down the passage.
“That was Raoul’s laugh. You don’t think he…?” The trepidation in Alphonse’s voice was obvious.
“You know him as well as I do. Of course he did.” With a muttered mierda and a roll of his eyes, Carlos’ sabre was drawn and the duo charged through the ill-lit subterranean passage, coming shortly upon the cavernous dwelling of their target.
Alphonse wondered if the elder Nosferatu had bought up all the land around this old ramshackle place just to keep the local yokels from digging into his basement. The dank smell of the place was little aided by the rotting bones and torn, bloodied clothing that lined the walls. More jarring, however, was the fight that had already begun over the stone sarcophagus that dominated the center of the chamber.
“You simply must be quicker than that, viejo!” Raoul gave a puckish giggle as the hissing mutant missed his left forearm by centimeters, the distended claws only seeming to sharpen with the creature’s rage.
“Skurwysyn! Zabije cię!” It was more like a roar than real speech, but even Alphonse’s elementary Polish could grasp the intention. The situation was less than ideal: Raoul, with his gift for vanishing, was distracting the elder, but couldn’t get close enough to plant the stake. Carlos, as menacing as ever, dashed forward and swung with reckless abandon, but the thing only lurched out of the way, barely missing its retaliatory strike thanks to the veil of shadows that cloaked the Lasombra’s movements.
It had reach. It had speed. It had cunning. Enough to threaten the two old friends working in tandem; not enough to ward off all three. Summoning the geometries and the incantations now so familiar to his mind, Alphonse felt the surge of arcane energy through his blood. Just as the Nosferatu lunged viciously for Carlos’ gut, Alphonse focused his gaze upon the elder.
A telekinetic grasp seemed at once able to invalidate reach, speed, and cunning. The Nosferatu struggled vainly against invisible fetters in a picture of fury at once horrid and romantic; even more breathtaking was Raoul’s reappearance in the split second afterwards, triumphant glee in his eyes and his bared teeth as the stake at last landed in the left side of the creature’s breast.
A kind of gasping quiet settled over the trio as the elder slumped to the ground, now ready to meet the sun. Alphonse looked over his friends: unhurt, the both of them. Carlos stooped low as he sheathed his weapon, hauling the gaunt and wiry form of the Nosferatu over one shoulder. “Nice work, Alfonso. If only you were that put together throughout the whole mission.” With a laugh and a swagger in his step, Carlos passed Alphonse and continued on towards the exit passage.
Alphonse was so busy inventing a clever retort that he didn’t notice Raoul looming over him, beaming, until the Malkavian had begun speaking in a cheery, if somewhat frantic voice. “Call that another one in our streak. You’ve come so far, Alfie.” Before Alphonse could muster the words to express his thanks, he felt a cool hand clasp the side of his neck and then ride up to gently but firmly grasp a handful of his light golden hair. As chill as Raoul’s touch was, his face seemed like the sun to Alphonse; the tension and emotion of the gesture, as well as the words that came next, could’ve set his dead heart aflutter.
“You are so endlessly fascinating in these things you do. As complex as those tomes you scan so feverishly.” The gentle purr of Raoul’s baritone sent a charge through Alphonse’s veins; the firm hand on his hip and the light tracing of Raoul’s lips and fangs against the side of his neck begged a pathetic whine from his lips.
“Raoul- it hasn’t even been a week since you last drank. You will- we’ll be-“ The defense was a shadow puppet show; the last gasp of propriety dying in a silent void.
“I want it. You, and your blood.”
And before Alphonse could say yes, whatever you want, the world melted into a symphony as Raoul’s fangs found purchase.
Text is in English. A single issue of this highly illustrative architecture periodical. Articles are: Colors / Viola Marquez and Gail Wittwer ; Ettore Sottsass, Large, Medium and Small Size Private Houses / letter by Aldo Rossi ; Travel Notes . Ettore Sottsass ; Helmut Newton, Cities and Towns ; Tombstone, Four Pieces and Code on the Idea of Burial / Francesco Pellizzi ; Craigh Hodgetts Ming Fung, You Send Me / Herbert Muschamp ; Carlos Jimenez / Viola Marquez ; C. A. D. / David Kelley ; Very Rare and Important / B. J. Archer ; Plans (4) ; A Baroque Story / Luigi Serafini ; Massimo Giacon, Frescos 1988-1989 / Ambrogio Borsani.
Most beautiful periodical about architecture and design. Only 5000 made per volume. Stunning pictures and drawings on selective paper, which differs per item.
Terrazzo prendeva in considerazione architettura e design con particolare attenzione alla contemporaneità, allargando lo sguardo al panorama internazionale e osservandolo dal punto di vista delle più svariate discipline, dalla letteratura alla poesia, dalla storia alla scienza, alla filosofia, all’arte, all’antropologia.
Dal 1988, anno del primo numero, fino al 1996, con la stampa dell’ultimo, il 13, la rivista ha espresso la volontà di Sottsass di produrre uno strumento raffinato di altissima qualità, sia per gli argomenti trattati sia per la scelta della grafica, delle immagini, della copertina e della carta.
Terrazzo rispecchia la metodologia di ricerca di Ettore Sottsass e dei suoi compagni d’avventura nella seconda metà degli anni Ottanta, dopo che l’esperienza di Memphis aveva raggiunto il suo massimo sviluppo. Nel progettare Terrazzo, Sottsass contamina architettura e design con altre discipline, in modo rigoroso e al contempo insofferente dei dogmi accademici e intellettuali, e, attraverso la rivista, punto di osservazione privilegiato, coglie il flusso e il senso del cambiamento di un mondo in rapida trasformazione.
