His killing in Tarrant jail exposed failures, abuse. But he was more than just an inmate

Anthony Ray Johnson Jr. loved Skittles. He liked listening to rap music with his sister and his nephew. His favorite color was red. He spent time doing work around the house, from remodeling a bathroom to daily chores, and helped care for his sister with developmental disabilities.

Yet it’s only the final, violent moments of Johnson’s life in April that most people know about him. An inmate killed in Tarrant County Jail. A 5-foot-4 Marine veteran living with schizophrenia, seen in shaky video restrained on the floor outside his cell as lights flashed, sirens blared and jailers’ shouts echoed off concrete walls. A man seeming to gasp and sputter for breath with a knee on his back until he fell silent.

In the five months since, Johnson’s name has become familiar as a rallying cry for jail reforms. His picture has become recognizable from his tearful family holding it as they’ve called for accountability, week after week at county meetings or in downtown marches. And it is his death — perhaps more than any of the dozens of others in recent years — that has triggered some measure of political pressure to expose and correct problems at Tarrant County’s jail.

Two jailers face murder charges, and at least 10 others are named in civil lawsuits, which makes it likely that those final moments in Johnson’s life will replay over and over. Johnson’s actions during the confrontation with jailers will be scrutinized, as will the reason why he was brought to jail in the first place.

But those things are not what define Anthony Johnson Jr. to those who loved him.

He was the brother who taught his older sister Janell and younger sister Chanell how to swim. To his mother Jacqualyne, he was the son who was excited to share what he learned at school. To his father Anthony Sr., he was the boy who loved watching pro wrestling together and the young man who followed in his footsteps by joining the Marine Corps.

That’s the Anthony who was deep and complex, blessed with talents and committed to one day owning a business and starting a family. He had learned to face the schizophrenia he developed as an adult and did what he thought was right in seeking help when he began spiraling into a mental health crisis. Now he won’t be there for the next family road trip or football watch party or birthday celebration, wedding or family reunion.

Five months after his death at 31 years old, his family is left with nothing but memories of that Anthony, and questions that have so far gone unanswered.

‘Nothing to be afraid of’

Anthony grew up in California until 2004, when his family moved to Fort Worth after his parents got jobs here.

As children, he and his sisters made up games to stay entertained. He would get frustrated when Janell won, but his father made it an opportunity to teach Anthony how to lose gracefully, as well as to respect a woman and recognize her strength.

When he started winning in their competitions at a teenager, he learned how to win respectfully with self-discipline and restraint. They were all lessons he carried with him the rest of his life.

The Johnson family watched football together (the Raiders were Anthony’s favorite) and even made up games to go along with the NFL draft, often looking during the regular season for players who were on the TV series “Hard Knocks.” They watched that series together, but Anthony Jr. and Janell had the most fun with it. They’d try to guess early on who would be most successful and who wouldn’t make it.

The start of this season will be especially difficult for Janell. She and her little brother were born one year and 10 days apart, and the first football games are around their birthdays.

Anthony Jr. and his father bonded over watching wrestling. By coincidence, their favorite professional wrestler Steve Borden, better known as Sting, was Anthony Jr.’s little league football coach. They didn’t realize it right away, but when they did, Anthony was thrilled. He and the family were invited to Borden’s house, where they got to see all his wrestling memorabilia. It was a core memory for them both.

Anthony Jr. had a way of teaching others without sounding like a know-it-all. Part of it was how patient he was, but the excitement he’d show was what really told others he wasn’t being condescending. He just loved sharing, like when he taught Janell how to swim after he learned at a YMCA preschool program.

“He told me the water’s nothing to be afraid of,” Janell said.

Anthony Jr. did well in school — not always a straight-A student, but reliably on the honor roll. Knowledge was a precious thing for him, and anybody who spent more than 10 minutes around him would know it.

At home, he was taught to value family, to show care and dignity to everyone he met, and to respect himself.

The friends he brought around gave his parents confidence in the person he was growing to be. Those closest to him were empathetic and intelligent, though he would befriend just about anybody as long as they treated others well. Character was the thing he cared about the most.

The move to Texas wasn’t an easy adjustment at first. For the Johnson children, all they knew about Texas was what they’d seen on TV — cacti and cowboys and tumbleweeds and funny accents — or during road-trip stops in Amarillo. So much here was different, but Anthony kept his trademark optimism close at hand and helped the rest of the family adapt to their new home.

It was around high school that he started talking about concrete plans for his future.

The U.S. Marine Corps

Atop a bookcase between the family room and the kitchen sits a photo of a young Anthony Sr. in his Marine dress blues . His stern expression belies a softness that finds its way through his eyes.

That photo was a reminder of his service, the things he saw, the sacrifices he made in the military. For Anthony Jr., the image was an inspiration.

Today, that picture still sits there. Next to it is a newer portrait of Anthony Jr. wearing the same uniform. It’s a place of honor in the Johnson household.

The family was surprised when Anthony Jr. said he wanted enlist. For years he’d talked about a career in culinary arts — he loved food, especially Mexican. Anthony Sr. was less than thrilled by the news. He didn’t want his son to endure the same struggles he’d experienced.

But nobody would be able to talk Anthony out of a military career. His mind was set, so the family focused on showing support.

Anthony knew joining the military wasn’t something to take lightly when he enlisted in August 2011. He told his parents he’d considered what it meant and knew it was the right path for him, but boot camp was worse than he expected. Some of the things he saw there haunted him.

Anthony started to notice something was wrong while he was in training. He would hear voices, but nobody would be around. He did his best to keep his head down and do his job, spending his time helping fellow Marines learn how to iron their uniforms and sometimes, because of his beautiful penmanship, helping them write letters home.

Anthony would eventually be assigned to the 1st Marine Logistics Group, Combat Logistics Regiment 15 based in California, and would staff military funerals. Seeing how young some of the dead Marines were, and witnessing their families’ pain, was tough. He was still proud to follow in his father’s footsteps, thinking often of that photo on the bookshelf, but now he had to deal with the things he’d seen. The things Anthony Sr. warned him about.

Living with schizophrenia

Developing schizophrenia cut short Anthony’s plans for a career in the Marines.

He was discharged in May 2013, not long after his mother got a distressing call from his sergeant. Anthony had climbed a tree and refused to get down. The sergeant wanted Jacqualyne to talk him down over the phone.

A military spokesperson told the Star-Telegram only that the premature discharge and his rank at the time indicated he wasn’t a fit for the Marine Corps. Anthony’s family said he was discharged because of his diagnosis.

The man who came home wasn’t the same son Jacqualyne had driven to recruiters, to whom she’d said a tearful goodbye when he left for training.

When he was doing well, Anthony still had the same loving, intelligent, compassionate character. He was still hopeful about the future, even if it took a little more effort to be that way. When dealing with psychosis, though, it was like the real Anthony had been hidden away, buried under the symptoms of a mental health crisis. Even his interests changed, like sitting and listening to his father practice jazz on his drum set, a genre he usually had no taste for but seemed to enjoy when he experienced an episode.

Jacqualyne blames the military, at least in part, for the schizophrenia. When Anthony experienced an episode, he would lose touch with reality. He’d hear voices, feel paranoid and struggle to think logically. He felt threatened, something she thinks came from his time in the Marines. Still, there were moments of clarity.

One episode started while Anthony was on the road, alone in the car. He fought the psychosis even as he was driving and managed to call his father.

“He was talking to me about where he was while he was driving, telling me what was going on, and at the same time he would talk to nobody,” Anthony Sr. said. “He found a restaurant and I told him to pull into the parking lot and go inside. He handed the phone to someone and I told them what was going on and then I headed to pick him up.”

When Anthony Sr. got there, he found his son sitting calmly in a booth, eating a meal. The employees said he hadn’t caused any trouble, even though they could tell he was facing a mental health crisis.

Anthony’s biggest fear was that schizophrenia would one day leave him homeless. That was part of the reason his family said he had so much empathy for people living on the street.

Corbin, his 10-year-old nephew, recalled one time his uncle took him to a QuikTrip. There was a man who was outside. On the way out, Anthony gave him some money and some of the snacks they’d bought.

Jacqualyne said that wasn’t unusual for Anthony. If he saw someone panhandling, he’d go to a fast food joint and get something for them. He’d give water and food to people outside grocery stores. He saw something in them, a potential future he dreaded, but also their potential if they’d had the same support he found in family.

But Anthony cared about people in a similar way long before the onset of schizophrenia.

When Anthony was himself — not experiencing an episode — he devoted himself to his family and to self improvement. He was determined to work so the mental illness wouldn’t stop him from living a full life.

Corbin’s earliest memory of his uncle was when he helped him get ready for the first day of school. Anthony made sure he had everything he needed and encouraged him, telling Corbin he would have fun, make friends and learn a lot.

His favorite memory is a bit more recent. They were at a small gathering at a pool in their neighborhood. Corbin had Anthony’s phone, playing Monopoly Go, and then Anthony ordered pizza that they ate together. Anthony would take him regularly to the pool, the basketball court or shopping for snacks. He helped him with his homework and taught him to keep a positive attitude.

He also cared for his sister with developmental disabilities. Being non-verbal, she and Anthony found ways to communicate about what she wanted and needed. The family thinks she still doesn’t understand that her brother won’t be coming home, much less why.

In a journal Anthony kept, he wrote a list of goals for himself. He called it his “Narrow Path to Heaven, in No Order,” with things like loving his family, staying fit, being loyal to God and controlling his schizophrenia. He was trying to identify triggers (his family said he was making progress) and find ways to avoid or cope with them while he made plans to go to school, start a business, eventually have a relationship.

Anthony wanted to build his own family, get his own house, make his parents proud of him.

They already were.

‘The last time I saw him’

Coming home in 2013, before his enlistment was supposed to be over, was difficult for Anthony. He felt like he’d failed in some way, but that’s not how his family saw it. They saw strength in him when he came home. He struggled with the diagnosis for a bit. Episodes saw him admitted to hospitals and arrested.

But, his family said, Anthony was doing well. He took his treatment seriously and was the one who asked his mother to take him to WellBridge Hospital in Fort Worth during his schizophrenic episode on April 19. He didn’t want to be in a position where he could hurt himself or others.

But the hospital turned him away , according to his family, a fateful decision that would land him in the jail block where he would die two days later.

Jacqualyne holds the hospital partially responsible. She and Anthony Sr. said their son was personable even during episodes, especially in the early stages, and could often hold eye contact, smile and stay engaged in a conversation. WellBridge Hospital employees didn’t see through that, they said.

“If they’d admitted him, he would still be here,” Janell said. “The last time I saw him, I could see the frustration that they didn’t want to help him.”

The hospital wouldn’t comment on why Anthony was turned away.

Jacqualyne took Anthony home, intent on keeping an eye on him and taking him back when he was in a state that would make the hospital admit him. When he left the house during his mental health crisis, she worried. He wasn’t himself. He could hurt someone, hurt himself or get in trouble, even though her son would never want to do any of that when he was healthy, she said.

She was relieved when she learned he was arrested. In police custody he would be safe, she thought. They could deal with whatever led to the arrest once his mental health was back under control. They would get through it.

Two days later, on a Sunday morning, a sheriff’s deputy and a chaplain would knock on their door.

Taken into custody

Little is know about the circumstances of Anthony’s arrest on April 19 and the following 48 hours.

Saginaw police found him in an intersection of Longhorn Road with a knife, authorities have said. He ran from the officers.

The Star-Telegram has filed dozens of open records requests with Saginaw police and the Sheriff’s Office, trying to learn more about what happened between the moment he left his parents’ home and the video of his death. Most of those requests were sent to the Texas Attorney General’s Office by the agencies as they sought to keep those details secret, citing ongoing investigations. The AG’s office has given them that permission.

They charged him with tampering with evidence with the intent to impair an investigation, evading arrest and possession of a “controlled substance.” He was taken to the city jail, where he spent the night, then to Tarrant County Jail on April 20.

Sources told the Star-Telegram that Anthony was put on a floor for inmates with mental illness. His family tried to get his medication to him but weren’t able to. Sheriff Bill Waybourn said at a May 16 news conference that jailers knew he was schizophrenic and experiencing an episode. The family’s attorney said a toxicology report showed he was not being provided his medication.

A fight, pepper spray and a knee to the back

Inmates with mental illnesses are assigned to the sixth floor, in a rectangular block with cells lining the walls on the main level and more on a mezzanine.

It was around 9 a.m. on April 21 when jailers conducting a routine contraband check arrived at Anthony’s cell.

People who live with schizophrenia experience paranoia, hallucinations, difficulty separating reality from fiction. The jail knew about that at the time, or should have, his family said. Anthony got his medication from My Health My Resources , a Tarrant County government service, and had been in the jail previously after getting in trouble during another mental health crisis.

The jailers doing the contraband check should have had staff with them who were trained in communicating with someone experiencing a mental health crisis, because if Anthony felt threatened during an episode, his Marine training would kick in, his father said.

“He was dealing with psychosis, so ‘the Corps kicked in’ means you get in his space and try to touch him, he will try to kill you because you are a threat.”

Anthony Sr. believes his son was holding back, fighting himself to regain full control of his mind even as he was fighting the jailers.

“They went into his cell and didn’t take any special consideration for the fact that he was schizophrenic and experiencing an episode,” Anthony Sr. said.

The Tarrant County Sheriff’s Office later released a partial video of the altercation.

It starts off with fuzzy footage from a security camera, showing Anthony step out of his cell as jailers surround him. The quality of the video leaves most people looking like silhouettes. Anthony spreads his arms in the doorway and is patted down. His family imagines he felt cornered.

The family said Anthony was a man who even in his worst moments would look for ways to avoid a fight. But if he was unable to avoid physical conflict, he would fight until he felt safe.

The video doesn’t show exactly what happened next, but the sheriff says Anthony did begin to fight with the jailers until they took him to the ground, handcuffed.

“It looked like my brother was a piece of food dropped on the floor and they swarmed him like ants,” Janell said.

Lt. Joel Garcia, a 21-year veteran at the Sheriff’s Office, was recording everything on a supervisor’s cellphone when he and Rafael Moreno, a jailer, rushed in as backup.

Anthony is on the ground, apparently still, when Moreno and Garcia reach him. He is cuffed and had been pepper-sprayed by a guard who also accidentally sprayed himself.

Daryl Washington, an attorney who is representing the Johnson family, told the Star-Telegram the spray was deployed directly into Anthony’s mouth . The medical examiner included chemical asphyxiation as well as mechanical asphyxiation as a cause of Anthony’s death, which was ruled a homicide .

Moreno puts his knee on Johnson’s back and someone in the video says they can’t breathe. Waybourn says that was Anthony, but multiple sources familiar with what happened told the Star-Telegram they believe it was an off-camera guard saying that. They think the weight of Moreno on his back was too much for Anthony to breathe, much less speak.

Moreno remains on Anthony’s back for about 90 seconds. Anthony is heard sputtering, wheezing, gagging, choking. He appears to spasm. Then he goes silent. Moreno stands up and Anthony doesn’t move.

What wasn’t released

That’s where the video cuts off.

The Texas Attorney General’s Office has said the full video can be withheld from the public on the basis of an open investigation.

Anthony’s family has seen it. Jacqualyne said she watched jailers and medical professionals stand by as her son died, discussing whether a JPS medical team working in the jail should come upstairs to him, or jailers should take him down to them. In the video, they showed no urgency and didn’t take his condition seriously , his mother said.

On May 16, the day the partial video was released, Moreno and Garcia were fired.

On June 28, 11 days after the cause of death was released, a Tarrant County grand jury handed up murder indictments against Moreno and Garcia. Anthony’s family called the indictments a “victory,” but said it wasn’t enough.

An attorney for Garcia denied the lieutenant failed in his responsibilities. He said Garcia wasn’t in charge of the scene until after Anthony was unconscious, and he immediately called for medical teams when he was in charge. Attorneys for Moreno couldn’t be reached.

Unanswered questions

The Johnson family heard that knock on the morning of April 21. There was a sinking feeling when they opened the door to find a sheriff’s deputy and a jail chaplain on the doorstep.

Anthony died in jail, that’s all they were told. It wasn’t until they read the news that they learned he’d been pepper-sprayed after an “altercation.” The Sheriff’s Office didn’t reveal until almost a month later that a jailer put his weight on Anthony’s back while he was handcuffed and face-down on the floor.

“They told us not to trust what we read in the media,” Janell told the Star-Telegram days after Anthony’s death was announced.

The family now knows how Anthony died but still agonizes over the unanswered questions. They know from the video that the jail’s medical team didn’t seem to take his condition seriously. They slapped his face, rubbed his chest, talked casually, then decided to take him to the infirmary.

If Anthony was still alive at that point, could he have been saved? Did he understand what was happening? What were his last thoughts?

The only certainty is that the man they loved is dead. His plans to achieve stability in his mental health, start a business and build his own family were cut short.

In her work as a nurse, Janell has seen a lot of death. She’s seen grandmothers and babies take their last breaths.

“They were with family,” she said. “They had people around with empathy.”

Anthony was surrounded by jailers when he took his last breath, his family says, but in reality he was alone.

That haunts them.