On February 2, 2017, I received a call from my sister. I did not answer the first call; then I got this uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach that something was wrong. My sister called again. I picked up, and she screamed, “Laurie! Frankie’s been shot!” I dropped to my knees, screaming. She came to pick me up, and we went to Richmond, California, where the incident occurred.
When we get to John Muir Hospital, they would not let me see my son. They told me to contact the police, so I did. They advised me to go to the homicide division. As my sister and my eldest daughter and sister got there, the officer passed me a printed picture with my son’s face on it and asked me, “Is this your son?”
I replied, “Yes, how is he?” She then passed me her card stating that she is a homicide detective.
My daughter said, “Mom, look at the card, it says homicide.”
I immediately started crying loudly, yelling, “No no no not my baby….”
After about one to two hours at homicide, she asked if my son was known to carry a firearm. I said no. She said, “If I have any more questions, I’ll be in touch.”
To make a long story short, my son was murdered.