“Can you identify your son? ” the officer asked. I pulled out my phone, still numb from the early morning drive. “This is my son right here,” I said, showing him the pictures.
He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then I saw it in his eyes. The young man found bleeding in the street a few blocks away, the one rushed to the hospital barely able to speak, was my Andre. I lost it.
I completely lost it. Three hours earlier, paramedics had answered a 911 call from a bartender driving home in Old East Dallas. He spotted someone crawling in the street. At first, he thought the man was drunk or in distress.
Police arrived within minutes and found him with a gunshot wound to his side. He could barely speak—just kept asking for help. Too weak to give his name, he was rushed to the hospital. There were no shell casings near where he was found.
Only blood. Police had no idea where the crime scene was or how he’d gotten there. I was on my way to deliver Andre’s young daughter to him that morning because I was starting a new job. I kept calling him.
No response. I called and called. When I got to his house, his car was in the driveway with the passenger door open. His phone sat on the armrest.
A smashed cheeseburger lay in the car seat. Fries were scattered on the floor. “Something’s not right,” I said. I called 911.
When I described Andre’s tattoo, an officer realized it matched the man they’d found blocks away. They rushed to his home. They asked me what he looked like. Short haircut.
Little blonde on top. Six-foot-five. I showed them his picture. They were certain.
My son was the young man gunned down in the street. He didn’t make it. He died in the hospital. Andre wasn’t just my adored son.
He wasn’t just a father to two beautiful little girls. He was a hometown hero, an NBA basketball superstar. Half my heart was taken that day. The phone calls started immediately.
“They killed my baby,” his mother said, hysterical on the other end. I broke down. I couldn’t understand why something so tragic would happen to someone so sweet. Andre never tried to hurt anybody.
He wasn’t a fighter. He was a gentle giant with a smile that lit up every room. Growing up in a tough area of Dallas, thirty-seven-year-old Andre had defied the odds to become a sporting hero. I met him when we were in the eighth grade, playing one-on-one basketball.
I got lucky and won the first game. After that, I couldn’t tell you the last time I beat him. Everybody recognized his talent early on. I knew we had a superstar.
Andre played college ball for Texas Tech’s Red Raiders, where he became their all-time leading scorer. He always had a slick move, and he made scoring look easy. He went on to the NBA, playing for the New Jersey Nets and the Memphis Grizzlies. Every accomplishment, every award, every trophy, he gave to his mom.
Andre wanted to make her proud, and that’s exactly what he did. Now, police were examining the scene of his death. They found about five shell casings near his Range Rover. More were found down the sidewalk, along a blood trail that led to where he collapsed.
His family gathered close to his apartment, devastated. “I’m so sorry,” I told his sister as we embraced. But I was angry. Very angry.
What happened? Who did it? Why would someone shoot him outside his own house? Was it over money?
A personal vendetta? A robbery? A big breakthrough came when police reviewed Andre’s own Ring camera footage. The video showed him arriving home after a night at a local club.
He was sitting in his driveway, eating a Whataburger. Then a suspect approached, pointing a gun at him. Andre put his hands up. A second individual came into view.
You could see Andre taking off his jewelry and handing it over. Then he ran. The first gunshot rang out. A neighbor’s doorbell camera captured what happened next.
You saw Andre running, and then the two suspects running away. Another gunshot. Then another. Whoever was shooting at Andre was trying to hit him.
The fact that Andre gave up his jewelry and the shooter still shot him made police believe this was more than just a robbery. Maybe it was personal. But when police asked the family who could have wanted to hurt Andre, no one had an answer. He had no enemies.
He gave back to the community. He was a role model to the youth of Oak Cliff, a neighborhood with lower incomes and higher dropout rates. Andre was a hooper, and everyone in every neighborhood loves a hooper. He played pickup games in the parks, which made him relatable.
The kids called him “Big Dre” or “Big Bro. ”
Still, police had no leads on the shooter. They canvassed the neighborhood and found a witness who heard the gunshots, looked out his window, and saw two men running into a white Chrysler 300. Security footage with a matching timestamp showed the white car parking just minutes before Andre arrived.
It was almost as if they were expecting him. But no one was able to identify the men’s faces. Andre’s postmortem report revealed he was killed by a single gunshot wound—a “RIP bullet,” a radically invasive projectile with eight prongs that spread inside his body, hitting his shoulder bone, his lungs, and his heart. Someone who uses that kind of ammunition doesn’t have much regard for human life.
The search for the white Chrysler drew a blank. Investigators struggled to find new leads. The case went cold. September 30th, 11 a.
m. The day of Andre’s funeral. It was so sad. His mom, his aunt, his two little girls—they didn’t fully understand what was going on.
Before the funeral, I told his girls, “Jesus needed a superstar. ” Andre had a beautiful service. Police and FBI were all over the church because the guy who did this was still out there. Then police released the surveillance footage to the public, hoping for tips.
We sat in the living room and watched the news. When we saw the footage, we screamed. I grabbed my chest because there were so many shots fired. Andre had complied with the robbers, given them what they wanted, tried to flee, and they shot him in the back.
It shocked the community. Tips came in quickly. Two names were mentioned by several callers: Michael Lucky and Keith Johnson. Police identified that Keith Johnson’s girlfriend had recently purchased a Chrysler 300.
She was brought in for questioning. But she claimed the car had been stolen and that she couldn’t report it because she hadn’t used her real information to buy it. Police knew the claim was false. The car was sold with a GPS tracking unit.
The data showed the Chrysler had been around Club Theory, the club Andre was at the night he was murdered. It showed the Chrysler followed Andre from the club to the Whataburger, and then back to his home. The GPS tracker also revealed something else: the Chrysler was taken to a salvage yard—a chop shop—and Keith Johnson and Michael Lucky asked to have it destroyed. Police found the crushed body of the car at a scrapyard.
This was a huge breakthrough. Police arrested thirty-two-year-old Keith Johnson and twenty-nine-year-old Michael Lucky on suspicion of murder. Keith was already in jail on suspicion of prior crimes. Michael turned himself in on a warrant.
Then the case took another turn. Tips came in suggesting a third person was involved. One name stood out: twenty-three-year-old Larry Jenkins. A witness said he’d heard whispers on the street that Larry was the one who shot Andre.
Days later, the witness met up with Larry at a smoke shop and asked him, “Why did you shoot that man if he already had his valuables? ”
Larry replied, “He shouldn’t have run. I’d do it again. ”
Another witness, who knew Larry, came forward with video evidence.
He described watching Larry play with the gun, take Andre’s necklace, and then hit him in the face with the weapon before Andre ran. When Larry Jenkins was brought in for questioning, he denied everything. “I ain’t never heard of him in my life. I ain’t did nobody.
”
But police accessed his phone records and used software called CellHawk to trace his movements the night of the murder. The data showed Larry Jenkins’ phone identically tracking the Chrysler 300’s GPS location that night. That was enough. Larry Jenkins was charged with capital murder.
All three suspects were charged with murder. Jenkins was the first to face trial. He pleaded not guilty. Going into the trial, I thought, this has to be the end.
The jury has to see what criminal act was committed against an innocent person. Seeing Larry Jenkins in the courtroom, I couldn’t sit still. I couldn’t take my eyes off the back of his head. The prosecution played the surveillance video for the jury.
It showed the brazenness of the robbery. The jury looked mortified. Andre gave you his jewelry. You already had what you came for.
But you shot him in the back anyway. When you followed all the evidence, the story was clear. Michael Lucky, Keith Johnson, and Larry Jenkins followed Andre from the club. They knew he had expensive jewelry.
They waited for him at his home. They robbed him. Andre gave them what they wanted and ran. Larry opened fire.
Motives? Pure and simple greed. The trial lasted four days. The jury found Larry Jenkins guilty of capital murder.
I looked across the courtroom at Andre’s mother. She was hunched forward, crying softly. I can’t imagine what that moment was like for her—to secure the conviction but know her son wasn’t coming home. Jenkins didn’t look remorseful.
Not at all. No heart. No soul. Jenkins was sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole.
I think he got what he deserved. Life in prison. Behind bars. I’m sure he’s going to run into some Andre Emmett fans in prison, constantly reminded of what he did to our family.
Keith Johnson took a plea deal and was convicted of aggravated robbery, sentenced to twenty years. Murder charges against Michael Lucky were dropped. This event wasn’t just about losing Andre Emmett. A mother lost her son.
A community lost a local hero. And two little girls lost their dad. That’s the totality of what happened. Today, the basketball court in Oak Cliff where Andre played as a kid bears his name.
The city opened it as “Dre’s Court. ” The whole place was packed. He’d be so happy to know there’s something with his name on it in his community, right near his high school, where kids can go and enjoy themselves. When kids say, “We’re going to Andre Emmett’s court today,” that’s what makes my heart smile.
Good job, Andre. Well done. I’m so grateful to have had him for thirty-seven years. He was such a big part of me.
He’ll be forever remembered, forever loved. I just miss him so much. My angel.
He is my angel.
