Locked and Loaded On a partly cloudy day in Chicago, TJ Jimenez
and his friend Jose Roman were driving around in TJ's Mercedes convertible.
Roman filmed their drive on his smartphone while a 22.
caliber Mossberg semi-automatic rested against his ankle on the car floor.
Meanwhile, Jimenez was armed with a custom-made blue plated pistol.
The car rolled up on a lone man on the sidewalk as he walked on the driver's side.
Jimenez confronted the man, then abruptly pulled his gun out, leaned over the door,
and fired two shots into the man's thighs.
If those first bullets didn't work, Jimenez had several more rounds packed in a Gucci
luggage bag on the car floor.
Minutes later, Jimenez sped away from a group of cops, lights flashing, tires screeching,
until he finally crashed his Mercedes, and the chase ended with their arrest.
Why did Jimenez shoot this man?
What did Jimenez tell the man before he shot him?
Did the time spent in jail turn this vulnerable teen into a seasoned criminal?
Convicted Jimenez entered the criminal directory at
13 when he was convicted of murder.
The victim was a nineteen-year-old man named Eric Morro, and on February 3rd, 1993, someone
shot him dead on a block in East Chicago.
By who?
The police weren't sure until they decided to charge Jimenez.
On paper, he seemed like the perfect person to convict.
Jimenez's uncles introduced him to gang life in Chicago at an early age.
The honorable judge Christy Brerkos took one look at Jimenez and only saw how much he looked
liked quote, a "little punk" who was "probably too young to shave but old enough to commit
vicious murder."
In addition to the profiling by judge Berkos, a couple of witnesses claimed he was near
the murder scene.
It was enough to put young Jimenez in prison for sixteen years.
That was until something remarkable happened.
Confessions Guards carted Jimenez off to prison in 1993.
Then, in 2009, new evidence came to light that proved Jimenez couldn't have committed
the Morro murder.
In 2009, an old confession resurfaced, and it wasn't Jimenez's.
The confessor's name was Juan Carlos Torres.
He was recorded on a tape confessing to the murder sixteen years ago.
Though it was a clear admission of guilt, the confession was deemed inadmissible by
law, and Torres got off scot-free.
Torres was also 13.
While young Torres was going to school like an average teenager, Jimenez stood in front
of 12 people who, in '93, voted to convict him of murder.
Then, not long after, Judge Berkos sentenced Jimenez to 45 years in prison.
Consolation Prize Jimenez spent sixteen years behind bars—starting
at the formative age of 13.
While most kids are getting ready for high school, learning how to be an adult, dating,
playing video games, and taking tests, Jimenez was sent to a state-run youth facility in
Illinois.
Though he was incarcerated with kids his age, Jimenez was small for 13.
His fellow juvenile inmates constantly harassed him and would even jump Jimenez from time
to time.
Jimenez would later say he suffered from depression at the youth facility.
His mental health didn't improve much when he moved to an adult prison after aging out
of the juvenile prison at 17.
In the adult prison, Jimenez was treated even worse; Jimenez claims both the guards and
inmates "terrorized" him every single day.
Eventually, the teenager decided to fight back against the abuse.
Unfortunately, Jimenez's toughness backfired.
Whenever he fought back against a guard or inmate, he was forced into segregated areas
where he spent most of his time without human contact.
Jimenez would later say all his anger, depression, and despair spilled over under the confines
of solitary.
So, whenever he was allowed back into public areas, Jimenez released his emotions on anyone
who antagonized him.
Jimenez was sent to solitary so often that he spent four consecutive years of his sentence
all by himself.
With all that alone time, Jimenez worked hard on getting a second chance to defend his innocence.
For sixteen years, Jimenez mailed dozens of letters pleading to lawyers and advocacy groups
like the innocence project to take his case—arguing that he still has a chance.
In 2005, a group of attorneys and law students working for the North-Western University Bluhm
Center specializing in wrongful convictions decided to help Jimenez prove his innocence.
Sure enough, when the team brought Jimenez's case back to court, the prosecutor's arguments
fell apart.
The two witnesses who said they saw Jimenez at the crime scene recanted their statements.
But the nail in the prosecutor's proverbial coffin was the resurgence of Torres' confession.
When their evidence disappeared, the courts decided to acquit Jimenez in 2013.
He was a free man.
Subsequently, the local government felt obligated to pay Jimenez $25 million.
Of course, that was only after a lawsuit.
The money was supposed to be consolation for taking sixteen imperative years away from
the 37-year old.
Jimenez went from a convicted murderer destined to be released in middle age to a multi-millionaire
in just one year.
Despite the victory, Jimenez didn't celebrate.
He got right to work on building a new life in Chicago.
SIMON CITY ROYAL The time Jimenez spent in prison molded him
into its image.
The people inside, not the bars or the walls, changed Jimenez, but not necessarily for the
better.
Prosecutors say Jimenez gave his lawyers around half of the $25 million apology payment.
As for the other half, most of that went to the Simon City Royals.
The Simon City Royals are an old street gang.
Their origins date to the 1950s, where the gang grew from greasers decked out in leather
jackets to the facial tattooed drug heads you see today.
They're a big deal in Chicago.
And Jimenez wanted to revitalize the gang, the same gang his family and friends belonged
to.
His uncles--the only father figures Jimenez had, raised him to follow in their footsteps,
and young Jimenez seemed to be cut from the same stone.
His criminal activities started while Jimenez was still in elementary school.
They were minor offenses like skipping school too many times and taking illegal drugs.
His mother, who spent all her time working, was powerless to stop her son from becoming
a juvenile delinquent, nor did she have enough money to send him to a better school.
Instead, everything he learned came from the Simon City Royals.
Given his family's generational involvement with the Royals, Jimenez waltzed back into
the gang like a prince returning from war, ready to take back his birthright.
Only gangs aren't kingdoms.
Jimenez would have to buy his way back into the gang.
Jimenez ended up spoiling them like they were his long-lost children.
And, in a way, they were.
However, all the gift-giving came with a price of sorts.
Jimenez returned to Chicago with around $13 million, and it was more than enough.
He could have bought himself a lovely house, gotten a job, or become an inspirational speaker.
He could have settled down with his beautiful girlfriend Jessica and lived out the rest
of his days in relative peace—as peaceful as a wrongfully convicted inmate could live.
Instead, Jimenez picked up where he left off.
Except this time, he was a millionaire.
He spent most of his money and time going on a massive shopping spree.
Jimenez bought fellow Royal gang members expensive sports cars, including a Mercedes sports car
for himself, along with Gucci products, jewelry, and lots and lots of guns.
The Simon City Royals looked legit.
However, Jimenez demanded more from the Royals.
He wanted to turn them into a real gang like Bloods and Crypts in California, who like
to use bandannas and tattoos to show their gang's pride.
FORMER GLORY Jimenez wanted other gangs to know whenever
they were in the presence of a Simon City Royal.
So, he started offering cash prizes for anyone willing to get the Royals' logo tattooed on
their face.
In addition to the tattoo bonuses, Jimenez also paid recruits to join the gang.
Ultimately, Jimenez wanted to create loyalty.
With the face tattoo incentives, the fancy cars, designer suitcases, Jimenez bought the
Simon City Royals loyalty, making himself one of their leaders.
After spending most of his time alone, Jimenez must have felt liberated.
He had a family again—people he could talk to and depend on.
Jimenez was a Royal, possibly the best Royal ever.
Jimenez had brought the old Chicago gang back to its former glory using his state-funded
restitution.
Jimenez wanted everyone to know what he'd accomplished.
He had a plan too.
His plan involved using social media to show how he would show old enemies, friends, and
former gang members that he was the savior of the Simon City Royals.
“Impostors” Along with his social media plan, Jimenez
also had a list of current and former Royal members he deemed "imposters."
Authorities found the list in a letter written by Jimenez in Cook County jail days after
the police chase on Belmont Avenue.
In the six-page letter, Jimenez wrote about his plans to make an example of these so-called
imposters when he got out again.
Jimenez claimed these gang members had accepted money from him but never contributed anything
to the gang.
Put another way, the imposters were money-grabbing freeloaders.
Jimenez wanted to ensure their actions didn't go unpunished.
One such man who apparently had feigned loyalty was Earl Casteel, a former Royal who had joined
the gang during Jimenez's big payout.
When Jimenez pulled up on Earl, the former Royal acted friendly towards them until Jimenez
pulled out his blue-plated pistol and asked, "Why shouldn't I blast you right now?"
. Instead of waiting for an answer, he went ahead and pulled the trigger.
Then the video cuts to black.
Earl Casteel During the trial in 2014, the jury watched
the video of Jimenez shooting Casteel.
It didn't take them long to decide a guilty verdict.
The judge sentenced Jimenez to nine years in prison.
The prosecutors wanted ten.
And just like that, Jimenez was back in prison.
He had spent nearly half his life behind bars and would spend the next decade there as well.
In a way, he was returning home.
However, Jimenez’s story traced back to that fateful day in 1993, when the 13-year-old
could have been put on a different path.
Sadly, life in prison only cemented the gang mentality he’d grown up with.
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And let us know whether you think TJ Jimenez should have had his money taken back by the
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