It was late that summer night when the Bronx air felt heavy with noise and fear. A grainy camera caught a kid stumbling down Bathgate Avenue, his white shirt turning deep red. One hand pressed to his neck while the other reached forward like he could touch safety if he moved fast enough. People were screaming for him to run toward the hospital, but his legs looked like they were giving out. His name was Junior.
That night wasn’t about payback anymore. It was about a mistake that couldn’t be undone. How does a 15-year-old end up hunted in his own neighborhood? To know that, you got to understand what the Bronx really was that summer. Lzandro Jr. Guzman Feliz wasn’t the type of kid you’d expect to get caught in something like this.
He grew up in Belmont, that little pocket of the Bronx where the blocks stay busy long after the sun drops. But his world was small, peaceful, and filled with family noise instead of street noise. His mom, Leandra, worked hard to keep him straight. And his sister, Genesis, always said he was the kind of boy who would rather joke around than fight.
He loved PlayStation nights, cutting jokes about his friends bad game scores and watching NBA highlights like he was studying film for the league he’d never joined. His apartment sat just a few steps from that bodega where his name would later echo through the city. Inside those walls, he wasn’t junior the victim.
He was the goofy youngest son who always made everyone laugh even when they were mad. He helped his mom run small errands, asked his sister for advice about girls, and spent most evenings watching YouTube clips or chatting with his friends online. Everything about him screamed normal. But in neighborhoods like Belmont, normal doesn’t always stay safe for long.
Junior dreamed of becoming a detective. He talked about it like it was already happening, telling his mom he’d one day solve crimes instead of becoming part of one. That dream wasn’t just talk either. He joined the NYPD Explorers Program, that youth group run by the police where teens learn about law enforcement and community service. Junior wore that uniform like a badge of honor.
When he put it on, he stood a little taller. Officers from the local precinct said they saw something real in him. He was disciplined, curious, respectful, and ready to make something good out of a place where bad things came easy. Leandra said he always wanted to help others. She told reporters he was doing great in school. He just wanted to be a police officer.
You could hear the pride in her voice, even through tears. In her eyes, her son was proof that not every Bronx story had to end in sirens. Junior stayed out of trouble. He didn’t rep a set, didn’t chase drama, and didn’t move with crowds that live by street codes. His world revolved around family, friends, and that one dream of wearing a detective shield with his name on it.
Still, the Bronx can test anybody, even the good ones. The same blocks where he walked home every night were also home to crews who handled beef with blades, not words. The same bodega where he grabbed snacks was a known neutral zone by day and a danger spot by night. Junior was careful, but you can’t always see danger coming.
His mother once said he wasn’t part of anything bad. He was just in the wrong place. There’s something quiet about how fate works in neighborhoods like that. Sometimes it’s just one decision, one corner, one second too late. On June 20th, 2018, Junior told his mom he was heading downstairs to return $5 to a friend. It was late, but he wasn’t worried.
It was his block, his home, and he figured he’d be back before she even noticed the door closed. That short walk should have been nothing more than another quick errand on a summer night. Instead, it became the last walk he’d ever take. He had no clue that a crew of young men from another side of the Bronx were already rolling through the same streets, looking for a fight that wasn’t his.
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He didn’t know that his name would soon be known across the world for something he never chose. Junior wasn’t built for the block. He was built for better things. But all the good he represented was about to collide with the worst the Bronx had to offer. To really understand what went down that night, you got to understand what the Bronx was breathing in 2018.
The air was different then. It wasn’t just hot from summer heat. It was hot from tension. The burrow had always been rough around the edges, but that year the streets felt heavier. You had good kids trying to stay clear, and you had crews trying to prove who ran what block. And sitting right in the middle of it all was a Dominican gang that had been building its name since the mid ’90s.
They called themselves the Trinitarios. They started in New York’s prison system, mostly Dominican inmates who formed together for survival. But like many groups that begin inside once they hit the streets again, the mission changed. By the mid 2000s, they had their own identity, their own code, and their own enemies. They used machetes instead of guns to make statements, and those blades became their signature.
You could tell a Trinitario hit from how clean and quick the cuts looked. They didn’t move sloppy. They moved like they were trained for it. By the time Junior was growing up, the Trinitarios were no small operation. They had sets spread across different burrows, especially in the Bronx and upper Manhattan. Every block seemed to belong to a crew or a rival of one.
In the Bronx, two of those sets were going head-to-head. Losers and Sunset both repped the same larger gang, but had turned on each other like family gone sour. Their feud started over turf and pride, but it evolved into something deeper, more chaotic, and more personal. When Losurus felt disrespected by Sunset, the streets started shaking.
Each side wanted payback, and that payback came in blood. They followed the old street rule of blood for blood, a code that doesn’t stop even when the target’s wrong. The leaders of Losurus were two names the Bronx would later remember. Diego Suero and Frederick Thin. They weren’t street corner kids. They were shot callers.
They gave orders and their soldiers carried them out. The orders were simple. Put in work. In that world, that phrase meant go out and make someone bleed for the set. The Sunset Crew operated around parts of Belmont, which is exactly where Junior lived. That meant his neighborhood was sitting right on the line of somebody’s war zone.
To the crews driving through at night, anyone standing near certain corners looked like an enemy. And in June 2018, that paranoia reached its peak. Detectives later said that days before Junior’s murder, there had already been stabbings tied to the same feud. The Bronx felt like it was waiting for the next hit. It’s wild when you think about it.
A gang war that started miles away somehow ended up circling back to a kid who had never touched that life. The Lost Shores crew rolled deep that night, about a dozen strong, cruising through Belmont in multiple cars. They were hunting sunset members, checking every corner, scanning faces through dark windows. The orders were to strike fast and disappear.
Nobody was thinking about right or wrong. They were thinking about loyalty and revenge. Meanwhile, Junior’s block sat quiet. Families were inside cooling off from the heat. Lights flickering through apartment windows, music still playing from cars parked on curbs. It was an ordinary Bronx night, the kind that feels safe because it’s familiar.
But those familiar streets were about to be invaded by something way beyond him. What happened later wasn’t random to the gang. It was just bad timing and bad information. The same orders that Suero gave his boys that evening would end up changing dozens of lives, including his own.
They weren’t supposed to kill an innocent kid. They weren’t supposed to make global headlines. But that’s how street wars work. One wrong assumption, one face mistaken for another, and it all goes downhill fast. That night, their hunt began. Not for Junior, but for anyone who looked like the other side. By early June 2018, the Bronx was boiling.
People on Bathgate Avenue said the air felt different that summer. Every night, you could hear arguments spilling out of corners and see groups moving faster than usual. The police scanners stayed busy with reports of fights, robberies, and stabbings, all circling back to the same name, the Trinitarios. Detectives at the 48th precinct said the sets were stirring, trying to outdo each other with violence.
It wasn’t about territory anymore. It was about reputation and retaliation. 2 days before Junior was killed, a 14-year-old boy was chased onto the Bronx River Parkway and stabbed several times. That attack happened on June 18th, and it shook the whole burrow. The boy lived, but investigators immediately tied it to the same Trinitario War brewing between Losures and Sunset.
The papers wrote about it like it was an isolated thing, but anyone from the Bronx knew better. The streets talked fast and word spreads even faster. That stabbing was only the start of what was coming next. By the third week of June, NYPD was rolling heavier through Belmont. Patrol cars circled East 183rd Street almost every hour.
Their lights bouncing off the walls like constant reminders that something ugly was near. Officers were checking known hangouts. But you can’t police whispers or coded messages. Phones were buzzing with group chats where young members talked about putting in work. They used phrases like let’s slide and let’s clean something up. The kind of coded talk detectives later found in their text logs.
Instagram stories showed mass kids holding blades, tagging their sets with green heart emojis, the color that marked their gang. They were flexing online like it was a game while the tension in real life kept rising. The Bronx was restless that summer. Machetes were out, sets were plotting, and orders were floating around like smoke.
The Los Sur had already decided it was their turn to strike. The leaders, Diego Suero and Frederick then were posting up in apartments and giving quiet instructions. They wanted their soldiers to drive through Belmont, find anyone tied to Sunset, and make a statement. By midJune, the Lost Source cars were rolling deeper into Sunset territory every night, just looking for faces they thought belonged to the other side.
Meanwhile, on the same streets, Junior was living a completely different rhythm. That week, he was helping his mom with groceries and cleaning the apartment before the weekend. His summer plan was to volunteer more hours at the NYPD Explorers program. He was studying for his next semester, watching funny videos with his sister, and walking to the bodega for snacks.
He didn’t even know the gang war had reached his block. Police were logging incident after incident, trying to connect dots between the stabbings, the cars, and the coded messages. Detectives from the Bronx Gang Division would later admit they could feel something coming. There were too many small fires burning close together.
Two different worlds were about to crash on the same block. It was Wednesday night, June 20th, 2018, when everything went wrong. The day had been hot and the city was still humming when the sun went down. Around 11:30, Junior was in his bedroom playing a game on his console. His mom was home, winding down after work.
He told her he was stepping out for a minute to return $5 to a friend. Leandra didn’t worry. It was his neighborhood, and it was late, but still familiar. He left wearing shorts, slides, and a plain t-shirt. He didn’t carry his phone. At that same moment, three cars packed with Los Shore’s members were cruising through Belmont. They were armed with knives and at least one machete. Their orders were clear.
They were looking for a Sunset member to jump. And the first car was Kevin Alvarez, 19 years old, riding with others who were already hyped from earlier fights. Behind them followed two more cars with members like Jose Munes, Manuel Rivera, and Jonikei Martinez Estrella. The crews were restless and loud, calling each other on speaker, sharing updates as they moved.
The men were hunting for someone they called Canalito. He was supposed to be part of the rival Sunset Set. The word was that he hung around Bathgate Avenue and East 183rd Street. That was exactly where Junior’s family lived. The problem started when someone thought they spotted him outside a small building near Adam’s place.
To them, the shape, height, and hairstyle matched the description. It was dark, and they didn’t take time to confirm anything. Police would later confirm that the killers mistook Junior for another boy from the same neighborhood. That mistaken identity became the whole reason for his death. At first, rumors spread saying the attack was over a sex tape involving a girl related to one of the gang members.
That version hit social media fast and made headlines, but detectives later debunked it. There was no video, no connection, and no revenge plot over a girl. It was just street confusion mixed with bad information. Around 11:35 p.m., the cars turned on to Bathgate Avenue. Junior was walking alone, heading toward the bodega at the corner of 183rd.
The cameras on the block caught the car’s creeping slow headlights low. Inside one of the cars, someone yelled, “There goes one.” Those three words started a chase that would end in tragedy. The doors flew open, and a group of young men jumped out. They were shouting, moving fast, and chasing Junior before he even understood what was happening.
The sound of their shoes on the pavement echoed off the walls. Junior broke into a run. He sprinted down the block, cutting through small groups of people who were still hanging outside. Someone yelled for him to stop, but he didn’t look back. His only thought was to find somewhere safe. The engines kept running while the rest of the gang chased him on foot.
One car followed slowly behind, headlights bouncing off the storefronts as if tracking the hunt. The people on the sidewalk scattered, ducking into buildings, pulling out their phones, but too scared to interfere. The block was suddenly alive with chaos. Junior ran toward the corner store that everyone in the neighborhood used.
The Ziz Arena Grocery on East 183rd Street. That store had always been a safe spot for locals, a place where kids grab snacks and parents cash checks. He must have thought he could hide there until the danger passed. Cameras caught him sprinting inside, out of breath, slamming into the narrow aisles. Behind him, the gang members were still moving, yelling in Spanish, calling him Sunset.
They believed he was one of their rivals. And in that split second, nothing else mattered. Their blood was up, their orders were still in their heads, and they thought they had found their target. Inside the car, still parked outside, a few others waited, watching the street, ready to drive off fast once the job was done.
The driver in one car was Rayvon Tiny Mickey Morland, later charged for helping the shooter escape. He said later that the situation was out of control before he even realized what was happening. But once those men stepped out, there was no stopping it. The whole chase lasted less than 2 minutes from the moment Junior was spotted to the moment he ran into that bodega.
For a few seconds, it looked like he might get away. People who saw the video later said they could feel how desperate he was, grabbing the counter like it was his last hope. What happened next would burn into New York’s memory forever. But at that exact minute, the only thing certain was that Junior was trapped. And the people chasing him were too far gone to listen.
That night, the Bronx didn’t just lose a kid. It lost a thin line that separates safety from chaos. Junior never knew those men. He never knew the names Losers or Sunset. He just picked the wrong knight to step outside, the wrong corner to walk past, and the wrong group of men to cross paths with.
They weren’t looking for him. They were looking for war. When Junior burst through the bodega doors, the camera caught everything. It was 11:38 p.m. the corner of East 183rd and Bathgate glowing under tired yellow lights. He came flying in like a storm, sliding past a man holding a bag of chips. His face panicked, his hands trembling.
The store owner, Modesto Cruz, looked up from behind the counter, confused. He saw a kid running for his life, not some gang member causing trouble. Junior vaulted straight over the counter, crashing into the wall and ducking low. His voice cracked as he yelled, “They’re coming.” Modesto stepped back, staring at him for a second before realizing the noise outside wasn’t just yelling.
It was a full-blown chase. He turned his head and saw shadows moving through the glass door. The shouts were getting louder. Spanish words cut through the air like knives. He was just a kid running for help. The streets followed him in. Outside, the gang members were closing in. The first one to reach the door slammed into it so hard the bell above snapped off.
Cameras caught Junior crouched behind the counter while Modesto tried to shield him. The owner grabbed the little wooden gate that separated the counter from the aisle and held it shut with his shoulder. You could hear him breathing heavy, trying to block the way as the gang rushed in, yelling. The gang members poured inside. Five of them, maybe six, moving like a pack that smelled blood.
One wore a green bandana around his neck. Another carried a long blade tucked in his sleeve. They didn’t care who saw them. One grabbed at Junior’s legs from behind the counter, while another leaned over, swinging his arm to reach him. The small shop turned into chaos, everything shaking, bottles falling from the shelves.
Junior kicked and screamed, his voice desperate. “Please, no! I’m not in a gang!” he shouted. His words echoed across the tile floor and off the glass doors, but nobody stopped moving. The gang kept yelling back in Spanish, calling him Sunset, convinced he was their rival. Those words, “I’m not in a gang,” stayed hanging in that space for a second too long. Nobody listened.
Nobody cared. Modesto tried again to hold them back. In one video angle, you can see him pushing against the small half door as one man climbs over. He later said he tried to pull Junior further behind the counter, but it was too fast. He said he grabbed a phone and dialed 911 once, maybe twice, but his voice was drowned out by yelling.
The whole scene lasted less than 40 seconds. A man near the counter tried to stop one of the attackers, pulling at his shirt, but the gang was too wild. Junior’s legs were snatched and his hands clawed at the counter edge. His fingers slipped once, then grabbed again. You can see it in the frame, him holding onto that counter like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
The fear on his face looked older than 15. Modesto shouted, “Stop! Stop!” But the gang wasn’t hearing him. They yanked Junior hard, dragging him out from behind the counter. One man kicked the swinging door open, and the wooden gate splintered against the wall. Someone outside screamed something like, “Go, go!” in Spanish, and then Junior’s shoes slid across the tile floor as they pulled him through the doorway.
The bell above the door rattled again as the glass shook. The cameras caught Junior trying to grab the edge of the door frame, his fingers slipping on the glass. Then the last pool came. His body disappeared out onto the sidewalk into the glow of the street lights, swallowed by the same noise that chased him inside.
Inside the store, the silence felt thick. Modesto’s hands were shaking as he dropped his phone. He looked toward the open door where the shadows moved outside. He said later that if he had jumped in the middle of it, he’d probably be dead, too. People later blamed him, saying he didn’t help enough, but when you look at those frames, you see a man frozen between fear and confusion.
He tried, just not enough to stop what was already written in motion. The door slammed shut on its own, the bell jingling one last time as the echo of footsteps faded. Outside, the night had turned into something no one could take back. Out on the sidewalk, the corner of 183rd and Bathgate turned into a nightmare. The footage from another camera showed the gang dragging Junior onto the pavement.
Cars were stopped at the intersection. A few horns blared as people realized what was happening. In less than a second, the blades were out. You could see flashes of metal under the street light. One man swung a machete like he’d done it before, slicing downward while others lunged in quick bursts.
Junior was on the ground trying to shield himself. His arms went up, his legs kicked out. The group surrounded him in a tight circle, moving fast, shouting the whole time. One of them, later identified as Joni Martinez Estella, stepped in close. He stabbed forward once hard, aiming at the upper body.
That single strike hit Junior’s neck, cutting through the jugular vein. It was the blow that would kill him. The other attackers kept swinging at his torso and sides, but that one deep wound was already enough. Martinez Estrella’s face looked calm in the footage, almost empty. It was as if he thought he was doing something justified.
The machete blade flashed again as Joseé Monise swung it across Junior’s shoulder. The others followed with smaller knives, stabbing quick before running back toward their cars. The street was full of noise now. You could hear people shouting from upstairs windows. One woman screamed in Spanish, begging them to stop. Another person leaned out of a car, yelling for the attackers to leave him alone.
It lasted 20 seconds. 20 seconds that changed everything. Then it was over. The attackers sprinted to their cars, doors slamming, engines roaring, tires screeched as they peeled away from the corner, speeding back toward Tmont Avenue. The sound of the engines faded into the distance, leaving behind only the echo of people crying out.
Junior was lying face up on the sidewalk, blood spreading fast beneath him. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then he pushed himself up slowly, his hand pressed to his neck where the blood was pouring out. His shirt, once white, was soaked red. You could see him wobble, trying to stay on his feet. A man across the street shouted for someone to call 911.
Another woman screamed, “He’s just a kid.” The smell of smoke and sweat filled the air. The cars nearby had their headlights still on, casting shadows that stretched across the pool of blood on the concrete. The gang’s cars vanished into the night. The whole block went quiet except for a few distant sirens starting to rise.
The people watching didn’t know what to do. Some froze, some ran inside. A few started running toward the hospital entrance down the street, yelling for help. The boy stood up, bleeding out, his white shirt no longer white. He stumbled once, steadying himself against a parked car, his hand leaving a smear of blood on the door.
The camera followed him as he took small steps down the street. The night had gone still again, but every step he took left another drop behind him. Junior started walking towards St. Barnabas Hospital. It was only one block away, maybe 200 f feet at most. You could see him in the camera footage from a nearby building, holding his neck with both hands.
People on the sidewalk were yelling, “Run to the hospital.” A few ran beside him, trying to guide him forward. He staggered past the light post at 183rd Street, breathing heavy, his steps uneven. His strength was leaving him fast, but he kept going. One man in a car recorded the moment on his phone. You can hear him whisper, “Oh my god, that kid’s hurt bad.
” Junior made it to the corner where the hospital lights were glowing. The emergency room entrance was visible from there, just across the street. He tried to cross, but his body started to slow down. His legs bent, his shoulders dropped, and the pressure on his neck slipped. The blood came faster. He collapsed right by the outer wall of St.
Barnabas, almost within reach of the doors. People ran up to him. One woman shouted for water, trying to comfort him. His lips moved. He asked softly for water. That was one of the last things he said. A hospital security guard ran inside calling for doctors. Paramedics rushed out carrying gloves and gauze.
They knelt beside him, pressing down on the wound, but his body was already too weak. Within minutes, his eyes started to fade. The ambulance lights flashed red and blue, but he never made it inside. Just after midnight on June 21st, 2018. Landro Junior Guman Feliz was pronounced dead. The report said he died from a single deep stab to the neck that cut through his jugular vein.
He made it to the hospital’s door, but not inside. The Bronx never forgot that image. By the next morning, the Bronx woke up to horror. The video of Junior’s last moments was already online, spreading faster than anyone could stop it. Someone from the block had posted the surveillance clips. And within hours, they were on every phone in the city.
People were replaying it in disbelief, seeing a 15-year-old kid dragged out of a bodega, stabbed, and left to die near a hospital entrance. The comments sections were filled with crying emojis and angry faces. It wasn’t just the Bronx watching anymore. It was the whole world. on Twitter and Instagram.
People started typing the same phrase, “Hashjustice for Junior.” That hashtag became a rallying cry within 48 hours. Photos of Junior in his NYPD Explorers uniform went viral, showing him smiling proudly beside police officers. The contrast between those pictures and the video of his murder was too much for people to handle.
They needed someone to blame, and they needed someone to fight for him. Celebrities started speaking up almost immediately. Bronx native Cardi B was one of the first. She posted a long message saying she couldn’t believe a kid who wanted to be a cop died like that. She donated $8,000 to help Junior’s family cover funeral costs. “These Bronx streets are ruthless,” she wrote under his photo.
Carmelo Anthony and his wife, La visited Junior’s mother, Leandra Phyis, at their apartment, bringing flowers and comfort. Rihanna shared the story on her page. Even people outside the country were talking about it. It had become more than a crime. It was a symbol of everything wrong with how young lives were lost in the streets.
The bodega where it happened became the first place people went to mourn. Within hours, flowers, balloons, and candles covered the sidewalk. People wrote notes saying, “Fly high junior and forever 15.” At night, crowds gathered, holding vigils and praying together. Mothers cried while fathers stood silent, fists clenched.
The whole Bronx felt it in their chest. They killed one of ours. But as the candles burned, anger grew, too. The first clips that surfaced made it look like the store owner had pushed Junior out instead of helping him. That image caught fire online. People accused Modesto Crews of letting the boy die. Strangers posted his picture and called for boycots. Some even threatened him.
They didn’t know the full story yet. Modesto tried to explain that he had help, but nobody wanted to hear him. He eventually released the full surveillance footage showing that he tried to shield Junior, that he called 911 twice, and that he pointed the kid toward the hospital once the attackers ran off.
Even with the truth out, the damage was done. His mother saw the news replayed on television and reportedly suffered a heart attack from the shock. Modesto ended up selling the store and leaving the neighborhood within 2 months. He told reporters he couldn’t sleep. “I see that boy’s face every night,” he said quietly. Public grief turned into a force.
Donations flooded a GoFundMe page started by Junior’s family raising over $300,000. The community organized peace walks and marches demanding justice and protection for kids in the Bronx. Politicians, preachers, and activists gathered in front of the bodega, speaking into microphones while crowds chanted Junior’s name.
The NYPD Explorers program held a memorial in his honor, his uniform framed beside a photo of him smiling in better days. The movement kept growing. Within a week, murals of Junior appeared on buildings around the Bronx. Artists painted his face surrounded by angel wings, bright blue skies, and the NYPD badge he once dreamed of wearing.
The street outside the bodega became a shrine filled with candles that burned for days without going out. That energy didn’t fade. It turned into something heavier, something sharper. The anger became fuel for justice. People didn’t just want the killers caught. They wanted to make sure the world never forgot Junior’s name. While the Bronx mourned, the NYPD was already deep into the hunt.
Detectives at the 48th precinct worked around the clock. They barely slept, watching hours of surveillance footage, tracing phone calls, and knocking on doors. The gang division brought in everyone they could. They wanted names, faces, and cars. Within 24 hours, they already had their first leads.
The videos gave them clear looks at the attackers. Their faces were visible in the bodega footage, and witnesses started calling in tips. One woman from the neighborhood said she saw the getaway cars heading toward Tmont Avenue. Another tip came from a relative of one of the suspects. For once, the Bronx talked.
People who normally stayed silent started calling the police hotline. The Bronx talked this time, one detective said later. 2 days after the killing, the first suspect finally turned himself in. Kevin Alvarez, 19 years old, walked nervously into the 48th precinct with his family and surrendered to detectives waiting inside.
He was one of the men clearly seen dragging Junior by the legs out of the store that night. He looked scared, quiet, and lost when officers cuffed him and led him away. Alvarez would later become a key witness in the case. But at that moment, he was just the first domino to fall in what would become one of the Bronx’s biggest murder investigations in decades.
The next big break came from across the river. On June 24th, only 4 days after the murder, police in Patterson, New Jersey, working with the NYPD, raided a house where several of the suspects were hiding. They found six men inside, all part of the Losures Trinitario set. Their names were Joseé Mon, Manuel Rivera, Antonio Rodriguez, Hernandez Santiago, Choniki Martinez Estellia, Danielle Fernandez, and Joseé Tavvarz.
The house looked like a safe spot where they planned to lay low until the city cooled off. Instead, they were pulled out in cuffs, their faces broadcast on every news channel. The arrest kept coming. Elvin Garcia, 23, tried to hide at a Manhattan hospital after showing up with a cut on his hand. He told doctors he got it in a fight with the girl’s boyfriend, but detectives knew better.
The wound matched what happens when a knife slips during an attack. They picked him up that same night. Then came the arrest of the leaders. Diego Suero, the 30-year-old founder of the Losur set, was taken in early July along with his second in command, Frederick. Then detectives said they were the ones who ordered the hit that led to Junior’s death.
They didn’t hold the knives, but their words started it all. By mid July, 14 people were in custody. The list was long, and every name was connected to the Trinitarios in some way. The suspects faced charges including first-degree murder, manslaughter, gang assault, and conspiracy. The prosecutors said the killing was deliberate, coordinated, and driven by gang orders.
Each arrest felt like a small piece of justice for the Bronx. When the first group was brought into court, the streets outside the Bronx criminal courthouse were filled with crowds shouting, “Justice for Junior.” People held posters of his face and watched as the handcuffed men were led inside. Some cried, some clapped.
One woman yelled, “You killed a child.” Inside the gang, the reaction was chaos. According to detectives, the Trinitario’s leadership was embarrassed by the attention. They weren’t used to this kind of national outrage. Someone from inside the organization reportedly reached out to Junior’s family through social media, apologizing and admitting they got the wrong guy.
Whether that message came from the top or a lower member, nobody knew for sure. But the streets were talking, saying even the gang couldn’t stomach what they had done. The arrest didn’t end the anger. If anything, they made people more determined to see every one of them locked away for life. News cameras followed the suspects to every hearing, showing their faces and the tattoos that marked their allegiance.
Junior’s family attended every court date, dressed in shirts printed with his picture. His mother stood outside the courthouse almost every day, thanking people for their support and demanding justice. Detectives said it was one of the fastest gang murder cases they had ever solved. From the night of the killing to the final arrests, it took barely two weeks.
For the NYPD, that was record speed. For the Bronx, it was proof that the community’s voice could move mountains when everyone stood together. The whole case was heading toward the next stage. The killers were caught, but the story wasn’t over. The trials would decide how much their lives were worth compared to the one they took.
The courtroom was about to become the new battlefield. By the summer of 2019, the Bronx courthouse was packed tighter than it had been in years. Every seat was filled. Every hallway crowded with reporters, family members, and curious faces waiting to see what justice would look like for a boy the whole city had claimed as its own. Outside the courthouse, posters of Junior lined the barricades, his face surrounded by candles and flowers.
Inside, the tension was so thick it felt like the air itself was holding his breath. Five of the main attackers were facing first-degree murder. Joseé Monise, Jonayiki Martinez Estella, Antonio Rodriguez Hernandez Santiago, Manuel Rivera, and Elvin Garcia. These were the men seen on video swinging knives pulling Junior from the bodega and surrounding him in the street.
Each of them wore the same gray prison sweats during the hearings, eyes shifting between the floor and the jury box. The courtroom buzzed with quiet whispers every time they were brought in. The prosecution came ready. They had video evidence, forensic reports, phone records, and most importantly, a former member of the gang willing to talk.
His name was Kevin Alvarez, the 19-year-old who had surrendered first. He wasn’t part of the five on trial, but his role that night made him a witness with inside knowledge. In exchange for a reduced sentence, he agreed to testify against his old crew. When Alvarez walked into the courtroom, the crowd went silent.
You could feel the hatred and disbelief ripple through the benches. He looked nervous, his hands shaking slightly as he swore the oath. When he began talking, his voice was low but steady. He said that on June 20th, 2018, the Losures Trinitarios met at a leader’s house. They were told to put in work and to go after a rival named Canalito from the Sunset set.
Alvarez admitted that he thought they were just going to jump someone, not kill them. He told the jury how they drove through Belmont in three cars, scanning faces until someone shouted that they had spotted their target. Alvarez said he followed orders, helping block Junior inside the bodega, but realizing almost immediately that something was wrong.
The kid they grabbed wasn’t fighting like a gang member. He was pleading. He said, “I’m not in a gang, and I believed him.” Alvarez said softly. When the prosecutor asked if he tried to stop it, Alvarez looked down. He said he froze. He said he watched as Martinez Estrellia pulled out a knife and made the fatal strike.
The courtroom was completely quiet except for the scratching of reporter pins. Later that week, the jury was shown the surveillance footage frame by frame. Every second played on a massive screen for everyone in the room. The sounds of gas and muffled sobs filled the space as the video replayed Junior’s final moments. His mother, Leandra Pheliz, sat in the front row, clutching a photo of her son.
When the footage reached the part where Junior was dragged outside, she fainted. The officers rushed to help her and the court recessed for 15 minutes. Her cries echoed down the hallway. The defense tried to paint the defendants as confused young men caught in gang politics. Their lawyers argued that they didn’t intend to kill anyone, that the stabbing was a mistake caused by mob panic, but the prosecution tore through that argument easily.
They showed the messages the defendants had sent before the attack. One said, “We going to get one tonight.” Another said, “Make sure he bleeds.” The medical examiner took the stand next. His testimony was quiet but cold. He described how the machete wound to Junior’s neck had severed the jugular vein, causing rapid blood loss.
The jurors stared at photos that most people in the room couldn’t bear to look at. The medical expert said death would have come within minutes. He said no amount of hospital care could have saved him once that cut was made. Another witness was Udelkimina, Junior’s close friend. She testified about how she spoke to him hours before the attack and how happy he was about an upcoming family cookout.
She broke down crying mid-sentence, saying he he didn’t deserve that. He never hurt anyone. As the trial went on, the community outside stayed glued to every update. The hashtagjustice for Junior trended again as people watched the case unfold live on news channels. The outrage returned when it became public that Kevin Alvarez had taken a plea deal.
Many Bronx residents felt betrayed, saying he should have faced the same punishment as the rest. Others believed his testimony was necessary to convict the killers. The division was clear. Some called him a traitor, others called him brave. In court, Alvarez kept his eyes forward. He told the judge he would live with guilt forever.
When cross-examined, he admitted he had been part of the Trinitarios since he was 16. He said he joined because he wanted protection and friendship. But that night changed him for good. His words made the courtroom pause. It was a confession and a warning all at once. During the last days of trial, emotions reached their peak.
One of the defendants refused to enter the courtroom, yelling from the holding area that the trial was unfair. Another defendant’s family member cursed at Leandra Feliz in the hallway, shouting insults while security pushed them apart. The chaos reflected how deep the wounds still were. When it came time for closing arguments, the prosecutor stood before the jury and said, “They killed a child who begged for mercy.
They hunted him down and left him to die. His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.” Everyone in that room already knew the truth. The jury deliberated for just over a day. On June 14th, 2019, they returned with their decision. All five men were found guilty of first-degree murder, seconddegree murder, gang assault, and conspiracy.
The courtroom exploded with sound. Some people cried, others clapped. Reporters ran out to broadcast the verdict. Leandra stood with her hands raised toward the ceiling, whispering her son’s name through tears. Each of the defendants sat frozen as the judge read the verdicts. Martinez Estellia, the man who delivered the fatal stab, stared blankly ahead. Moise shook his head slowly.
The rest avoided looking toward Junior’s family. Outside, hundreds gathered as the news spread. People cheered, chanting Junior’s name and shouting, “We did it!” through the courthouse steps. Police cars lined the block as the crowd grew larger. The Bronx felt lighter that day, if only for a moment. Inside the courtroom, Leandra was escorted out by officers after she began to sob uncontrollably.
She said, “Now my baby can rest.” Her voice trembling. Detectives who had worked the case hugged her as she left. Even seasoned officers admitted later that it was one of the hardest cases they had ever worked on. Justice and paperwork doesn’t heal the streets, but that day it gave the Bronx a breath. The killers were finally held accountable.
Yet, as the cameras flashed outside and the chance echoed across the courthouse, everyone knew deep down that justice doesn’t erase pain. It only stops the bleeding for a while. The sentencing came in October 2019, 4 months after the guilty verdicts. The Bronx Criminal Court was full again, packed with journalists, detectives, and families who had been waiting more than a year to hear the final words.
The defendants were brought in one by one, dressed in beige prison uniforms, wrists chained to their waist. They looked older than they had when the trial began, tired and emotionless, staring at the floor as the judge entered the room. Judge Robert Ner began the hearing with a long pause. He said the killing of Landro Junior Guzman Pheliz was cruelty beyond comprehension.
His voice stayed firm as he described how the attackers had turned a neighborhood corner into a killing ground, hunting a child who begged for mercy. The courtroom was silent except for the hum of cameras. When the judge began announcing sentences, the families of both sides wept. Joniki Martinez Estrellia, the man who delivered the fatal stab to Junior’s neck, received life in prison without the possibility of parole.
He showed no emotion, standing still while officers surrounded him. The others, Jose Monise, Antonio Rodriguez Hernandez Santiago, Manuel Rivera, and Elvin Garcia, each received 25 years to life. Their lawyers tried one last time to ask for leniency, but the judge shook his head, saying there was no sentence long enough to match the pain they caused.
Then came the moment everyone had been waiting for. Junior’s mother, Leandra Felis, walked to the podium. She wore a white shirt with her son’s picture printed across the front. Her voice trembled, but her words were sharp. They killed two that night. she said quietly. My son and me. She told the court she wakes up every day wishing it had been her instead.
He was just a boy who loved life. You all took that from me. The sound of her crying filled the room and even the judge looked down for a moment. Next, Junior’s father, Lisandro Guzman, spoke. His grief was quieter, but no less heavy. He said he used to wait every evening for his son to walk through the door, calling out, “Poppy, I’m home.
” Now, every night felt like a wound that never healed. “You didn’t just take my son,” he said softly. You took our reason to live. When the families finished speaking, the defendants were let out in silence. Some turned their heads away from the family while others glanced up briefly, faces blank.
For Leandra, it was a bittersweet victory. The killers were punished, but the hole left behind could never be filled. The story wasn’t over, though. Several other Trinitarios still faced charges. Diego Suero, the Losur’s leader, and Frederick then, his right-hand man, had ordered the attack. They weren’t part of the first trial, but were waiting for theirs to begin.
In 2022, after years of delays caused by CO 19 and backlog court schedules, both men pleaded guilty. Swero received 25 years to life while then got 12 years. A few other defendants took plea deals in 2023, admitting their roles as lookouts and drivers. Their sentences ranged from 12 to 18 years.
The Bronx community had mixed feelings. Some said justice was served, others said it was too soft. Leandra publicly expressed her disappointment, telling reporters that those who gave the orders should have gotten life, too. They didn’t hold the knife, she said. But they sent the killers to my son. By the end of 2023, every person involved in Junior’s murder had been convicted or had taken a plea deal. The case was legally closed.
But for the Bronx, it was still open in people’s hearts. The community finally saw justice on paper. Yet, the loss remained sharp. Every man who touched that night paid his price, but none enough to bring Junior home. In the years that followed, the Bronx began to rebuild around Junior’s memory. His name didn’t fade with the headlines.
Instead, it became part of the neighborhood itself. The block where he was killed was officially renamed Leandro Jr. Guzman Feliz Way, marked by a bright green sign unveiled by city officials and family members. When the cloth covering the sign dropped, the crowd clapped and cried at the same time. The NYPD explorers who had once trained with Junior stood at attention, saluting his name as the wind lifted the banner above the street.
The city honored him in more ways than one. The NYPD created a scholarship fund in Junior’s name for kids who wanted to join the Explorers program. Each year, young Bronx teens received awards for community service, carrying the same goals Junior once had. His old school, the Dr. Richard Escerado Health and Science Charter School set up a library corner dedicated to him filled with books about law, justice, and hope.
Murals of Junior appeared across New York. On Prospect Avenue, one showed him smiling in his uniform, surrounded by angel wings and a badge shining above his head. Another mural near Crettona Park had the words forever 15 painted in blue letters across a brick wall. These weren’t just art pieces. They were symbols of what the Bronx lost and what it refused to forget.
Leandra Felles turned her grief into a mission. She transformed from a morning mother into a voice for change. She started speaking at schools, youth events, and police gatherings, warning kids about gang life, and calling for stronger community safety programs. Her main campaign became known as Junior’s Law. She pushed for laws that would make bodeas and small shops registered safe havens for people being chased or attacked.
Her idea was simple. Every store should have a panic button linked directly to the NYPD and a safe space sticker at the entrance to let people know where to run. In 2023, after years of lobbying, New York City introduced the Bodega Safe Haven program. Stores began installing emergency alarms and placing decals that read safe haven for teens.
The pilot program started in the Bronx, the same burrow where Junior lost his life. Leandra stood beside city officials during the announcement, her voice calm but strong. “If one child can be saved,” she said, “then my son’s death will not be in vain.” Her activism also led to the creation of the Junior Foundation, a nonprofit that hosts summer programs for Bronx kids.
The foundation focuses on education, mentorship, and community involvement. Each summer, they organize events where officers and teenagers play basketball together, share meals, and talk about building safer neighborhoods. Leandra attends every event, smiling at the laughter of kids who remind her of the boy she lost.
The Trinitario’s presence in the Bronx began to fade after the trials. Police crackdowns and community vigilance made it harder for them to recruit new members. Former gang hotspots grew quieter and murals replace graffiti. The violence didn’t disappear completely, but the city saw fewer gang related stabbings in the years that followed.
Detectives who once worked the case said the community’s relationship with the police changed, too. After seeing how people’s cooperation helped solve Junior’s murder, residents started speaking up more. Neighborhood watch groups expanded and trust slowly returned between locals and law enforcement. Junior’s story became a lesson taught in schools across the burrow.
Teachers used it to talk about violence, compassion, and responsibility. The message was clear. One person’s choice to help or harm could change everything. Kids who grew up hearing about Junior now wear bracelets and shirts printed with the words, “Do it for Junior.” On anniversaries of his death, crowds still gather at the bodega corner.
They light candles, sing songs, and release blue and white balloons into the sky. Each year, Leandra stands near the memorial, tears mixing with smiles, surrounded by neighbors who never stop showing up. Out of one boy’s blood came a new heartbeat in the Bronx. The same streets that once ran cold with fear now carry his name as a reminder of hope.
Junior’s story will always hurt, but it also made people better. It taught a city that justice doesn’t end with the convictions. It begins with what we do after them. In early 2023, the case of Jonki Martinez Estradier returned to court. His lawyers filed an appeal, arguing that the jury in 2019 had not been properly instructed on the distinction between first and seconddegree murder.
After months of review, a New York appellet panel overturned his first-degree conviction, ruling that while the evidence proved murder beyond question, it did not meet the narrow requirements for premeditation. The decision sparked outrage in the Bronx. For many, it felt like a door reopening on pain they had tried to close.
Prosecutors quickly moved for a resentencing hearing. The courtroom looked smaller this time, quieter with fewer cameras, but the same tension in the air. Leandra Feliz sat in the front row, her hands folded tightly around a pendant with her son’s picture. The judge reviewed the case details again, calling the killing one of the most brutal acts ever captured on video.
He sentenced Martinez Estrellia to 25 years to life, the maximum allowed under the new ruling. The sound of the gavvel echoed softly as the judge spoke the final words. Only a few weeks later in May 2025, Martinez Estrella was found unresponsive inside Kaksaki Correctional Facility in upstate New York.
Prison staff said they found him collapsed in his cell during morning rounds. They administered Narcan, suspecting an overdose, but he was pronounced dead shortly after. Officials announced that an investigation was ongoing, though early reports suggested a mix of synthetic opioids. The news broke fast. Within hours, headlines across social media read, “Killer of Junior Guman Feliz dies in prison.
” Comment sections filled instantly. Some people called it karma. Others said justice had a way of finding its own balance. There were posts celebrating his death and others questioning what had driven him to that point. The same community that once demanded his punishment now found itself debating whether the cycle of suffering had gone too far.
When reporters reached out to Leandra Felis, her response was steady and graceful. She told them she took no joy in hearing about anyone’s death. I already lost my son, she said quietly. I don’t want another mother to feel what I felt. Her words reminded people that real justice isn’t about revenge. It is about ending pain, not spreading it further.
Inside the Bronx, the conversation shifted. Some people said it was divine balance. Others said it showed that even inside prison walls, violence and addiction still ruled lives. For many, it became another reminder that the wheel never stops turning. The same world that created killers also swallowed them whole. The streets change faces, but the cycle keeps spinning.
Sometimes behind bars, sometimes outside. As the years passed, Junior’s story continued to echo beyond the Bronx. Schools used his case to teach empathy. Police officers referenced his name in community outreach meetings. Every June, his family gathered at the corner of Bathgate Avenue and East 183rd Street, lighting candles under the mural that now watches over the block.
His mother still touched the wall each time she visited, whispering a prayer and thanking those who remembered. Junior’s name had become bigger than tragedy. It had become a lesson, a movement, a warning, and a symbol of hope all at once. The boy who once dreamed of becoming a detective ended up changing how a city looked at itself.
His story was not about revenge anymore. It was about resilience and how love can outlast even the worst kind of loss. He ran for his life that night.
