1/3
"Swing for Hope," a fund-raising golf tournament in Angie Leon's memory, is set for July 25 at Eagle Hills Golf Course. This is the fourth year for the event, which raised $10,000 last year for the Hope's Door family violence shelter. This year, organizers hope to raise $20,000 through sponsorships, a silent auction and participation fees. The cost to participate is $70, including dinner, spokesman Jason Cameron said.
To register or for more information, contact Cameron at 459-6279 or jcameron@hopesdoor.
After Abel Leon was released from jail on April 23, 2003, his estranged wife, Angie, lived in fear, said Angie's mother, Sylvia Flores.
"I asked her to come stay with us, and she said, 'That's the first place he'll look."
Angie Leon and the couple's three small children moved to an apartment near Northwest Nazarene University. Mother and daughter still drove to work at Treasure Valley Hospital together every day, but Flores took a different route to Angie's each day to keep Abel Leon from following her. Here's her account of Angie Leon's final morning, May 19, 2003.
Flores felt "very antsy a little sick to my stomach" when she pulled up at the Nampa apartment complex. Angie, 21, looked pale and afraid when she opened the door. The baby was in her car seat; the two older children "were right there, practically wrapped around her legs." Flores stepped inside, saw Abel and asked him what he was doing there.
"Mom, let's just go. Let's just go," Angie Leon said.
"Ang, Ang, I need to talk to you," her husband said.
The women hurried down to Flores' car, rushing to get the children secured.
Abel Leon ran to the car and grabbed Angie as she was getting in. When Flores started around the car to help her daughter, he pulled out a handgun and pointed it at her.
Then he put the gun to his wife's head and dragged her back into her apartment, his hand gripping her hair. Flores pleaded with him not to hurt her.
"The kids were screaming, 'Mommy, Mommy.' He (Abel) said, 'All I need is 10 minutes' and signaled at me not to phone.
"Angie said, 'Mom, go. Go, take the kids'."
"She just kept saying 'Mom, Mom' That's something I'll have to live with the rest of my life."
Flores was terrified, angry and unsure what she should do. She picked up her cell phone to dial 911, holding it low so Abel could not see it if he looked out the window.
Flores moved the car a short distance, to the entrance of the apartment complex. The kids calmed down a little.
"Mommy said you're going to take care of us now," 5-year-old A.J. said.
At that moment, police arrived. They used Flores' key to enter the apartment and found Angie Leon on her daughter's bed with three close-range gunshot wounds -- one to the chest and two to the head. Abel Leon had fled.
"I didn't hear the gunshots. The kids said they heard them, but I was talking to the dispatcher.
"I'll never forget his face. I'll never forget his words."
Kristin Rodine
Canyon County prosecutors' handling of the Abel and Angie Leon case was a prime issue in a citizens task force investigation, a lawsuit and, most recently, the Republican primary election for the prosecutor's job.
John Bujak, who defeated incumbent Dave Young and doesn't have an opponent in the November election, said the issue came up numerous times on the campaign trail, particularly in terms of promised changes in handling domestic violence cases.
"There's nothing significantly different in the way cases are being handled now," Bujak said.
Young could not be reached for comment.
Despite several domestic violence charges and 25 violations of no-contact orders, a deputy prosecutor agreed to release Abel Leon from jail while he awaited sentencing. Leon tracked down his wife a few weeks later and killed her.
Angie Leon's mother, Sylvia Flores, and task force leader Teri Ottens said they believe Bujak will come through with needed changes after he takes office in January. Both said they'll be keeping a close eye to make sure.
The fault for what happened to Angie Leon lies not with the individual handling the case, but with the system, said Bujak, a criminal defense lawyer and former deputy prosecutor. He said he plans to take the following steps quickly:
Establish a specialized domestic violence unit with training, expertise and direct contact with victims. Bujak envisions several units in the prosecutor's office that will readily consult with police on cases falling within their expertise.
Give victims direct access to prosecutors. Now, he said, prosecutors rely too heavily on victim/witness coordinators, which can make victims feel ignored by the prosecutor and more likely to back out. Personal contact also gives prosecutors a better feel for the case than "cold facts on a page" do.
Create an effective system for "victimless prosecutions" so that case groundwork is solid enough that it can proceed even if the complaining witness backs out.
Aggressively prosecute violations of no-contact orders. According to the task force investigation, Abel Leon violated civil protection orders 25 times but was prosecuted for only three.
Put complete criminal histories in the file for every domestic violence case.
Bujak said having training programs and good policies in place is essential, but he also will push his deputies to be vigilant and alert in each prosecution.
"Don't get lulled into just following the pattern," he said.
Kristin Rodine
Three raven-haired children jostle and giggle as their grandmother shows off their baby scrapbook.
"That's me!" exclaims 10-year-old A.J.
"That one's me," says Alej, 9.
"I'm too cute," observes Byanka, the youngest.
Clambering half onto her grandmother's lap, the 6-year-old points at the serious-looking man standing next to her mother in one photo.
"Who's that?"
"I'll tell you later," Sylvia Flores says, adding softly for a visitor, "She doesn't know."
"Who's that? Who's that? Who's that?"
"That's Abel."
The questions stop. The little girl may not know the face, but she definitely recognizes the name.
Byanka was only a year old when her father, Abel Leon, dragged her mother away from the screaming children and into her Nampa apartment while Flores pleaded for her daughter's life. Moments later, three gunshots rang out.
Angie Leon, then 21, has been dead for five years. Abel Leon is serving a life sentence for her murder, with no chance for parole. And Sylvia Flores, an empty-nester in 2003, is raising Angie's children.
Angie Leon's death on May 19, 2003, devastated her close-knit family, but it also sent lasting ripples through the community and beyond.
People weren't just touched by the terror of her last moments; they were moved to action by the pattern of errors and the system's apparent indifference that contributed to the tragedy. Despite numerous domestic violence charges and 25 violations of no-contact orders, a deputy county prosecutor had agreed to release Abel Leon (pronounced lee-OHN) from jail while he awaited sentencing for his latest crime. Angie Leon tried to keep her new apartment secret, but within a few weeks he had tracked her down.
Her case sparked outrage about domestic violence and inspired a new family violence group and shelter. A citizens task force studied what had gone wrong in Angie's case and what could be done to help prevent similar horrors. Some people close to the case campaigned against longtime Canyon County Prosecutor Dave Young and celebrated when he lost by a landslide in this May's primary.
Angie Leon, who in life hated being the center of attention, has become a household name in death.
"People I don't even know actually remember that day and where they were when they heard," Flores said.
A CALL TO ADVOCACY
Since that day, Flores has immersed herself in a second round of raising three children. And she has become an advocate, trying to assist other women and families who are ensnared in domestic violence.
"It helps me to be able to help others," she said. "Moms will call and ask me, 'Will you talk to my daughter?' 'Will you talk to my friend?'"
Flores, who works full-time doing Medicaid billing, never says no, citizens task force leader Teri Ottens said.
"If I get a victim who calls and doesn't know what to do, I call Sylvia, and she always makes time," Ottens said.
"Sylvia has a mission: to make sure the system doesn't dis someone else like they did Angie," she said. "I would love to see her go on the talk circuit give speeches across the state."
Ottens and others poured two years into investigating the Leon case and the local handling of domestic violence, pointing out problems and recommending solutions. Their painstaking review was key evidence in the family's lawsuit against prosecutor Young and Canyon County; the county's insurer settled the lawsuit for $925,000.
"People still remember the name Angie Leon, still remember what happened," said Ottens, who visits Angie's grave every May 19. "And some people are still embarrassed."
PLANS AND POLICIES
After years of fear and turmoil, Angie Leon was at her happiest at the end of 2002 and early 2003, her mother recalls. Abel Leon was in jail on a charge of eluding police, and Angie was told he would likely spend 10 years in prison.
With that amount of time, she could pursue her dream of attending Idaho State University and becoming a pharmacist. When Abel got out, she'd be long gone, settled in a new place with a new name, Flores said. She and her children would be safe.
But by April, dread filtered into Angie Leon's generally optimistic mindset. Driving to a family funeral with her mother, she started talking about her death: She wanted to be cremated, and she wanted Flores to raise her children.
When Flores tried to deflect the topic, her daughter answered, "If Abel gets out, I know he's going to kill me."
"I said, 'He's not getting out,'" Flores said. "A month later she was gone."
Shortly after Angie's murder, Young said a deputy prosecutor had erred in handling the case and vowed his office would "make every procedural change within our power" to try to prevent similar situations in the future. Within a few days, he announced several policy changes, any of which could have kept Abel Leon in jail.
But when asked in a legal deposition three years later whether his office was following those announced new policies, Young said only, "not entirely, no."
Young did not return phone calls requesting comment for this story.
SOME POSITIVE SIGNS
Flores and Ottens said they were disappointed by the scarcity of change in the prosecutor's office and beyond.
"The changes are a long time coming," Ottens said. "I still get discouraged when I talk to victims."
But she points to some significant improvements since Angie Leon's death, such as increased resources for domestic violence victims and schools providing family violence information. Local police departments have been very responsive, she said, offering more training and collaboration with domestic violence groups.
And both women say they have high hopes for more change once the new county prosecutor, John Bujak, takes office in January.
Hope's Door shelter for women and children opened in Caldwell in 2005, a direct response to the Leon case and the issues it raised, Hope's Door spokesman Jason Cameron said. His mother, Hope's Door Executive Director Brenda Cameron, left her victim/witness coordinator job with the prosecutor's office and became an advocate against family violence "to ensure that there are no more Angies," he said.
Hope's Door has two lasting reminders of Angie Leon: an annual fundraising golf tournament in her honor and a room named for her and decorated by Flores and two friends in red, white and blue to offer a safe, attractive haven to domestic-abuse victims.
Another monument, Flores said, is a bench outside Nampa's Mercy Medical Center that bears Angie Leon's picture and stands next to white roses, her favorite flower.
OLD MEMORIES, NEW NAME
Even more precious tributes, she said, are the times that women have told her that her daughter's story "was what inspired them to get out of that situation."
That makes Flores proud. But then she's always been proud of her middle child and only daughter.
Angie was big-hearted, quiet but funny, and opinionated, her mother recalls. A homebody, she enjoyed cooking and didn't care much for cleaning. Most of all, she loved to hang out with her children.
Family videos show Angie cuddling and laughing with them, calling Byanka "Grandpa Munster" because of her wild baby hair. "You smell like chocolate," she tells Alej during a birthday party.
Angie Leon carefully compiled a baby book with photos and mementos of all three children - hospital armbands, baby footprints, lots of photos. For each there's an image of Angie Leon holding her newborn, her face radiating peace and joy.
That book remains exactly as she left it, including the portrait of Angie and Abel on its opening page. The image is painful for Flores, but she didn't remove it: "I didn't think it was my place."
One reminder of Abel is gone now. Named after his father, A.J. came to hate what his initials stood for - Abel Leon Jr. - and rebuffed questions with, "It just means A.J."
Now he's happy to answer the question, Flores said: After Abel Leon's parental rights were terminated in 2004, the family legally changed A.J.'s name so the initials now stand for Andres Josu, the name Angie had initially favored for her firstborn. All three children now have Castellanoz, Angie's maiden name, as their last name.
REASONS TO KEEP GOING
Whenever Flores hears of someone losing a child, whether by accident, illness or violence, she said, "I always think about them the next day."
"That's the worst. You don't sleep, and then morning comes, and you can't believe it really happened."
Empathy for others' losses can be overpowering, she said: "Sometimes I don't even want to read the paper or watch the news."
Angie's children keep Flores going. And they keep Angie's traits alive: A.J. has his mother's smile and quiet wit, and the two girls reflect their mother's Gemini duality, Flores said.
"Byanka definitely has her spunkiness, and Alej has her quiet side. The way she sits, the way she is it's Angie."
The children were in counseling for several years, which helped them get past nightmares, Flores said. They stopped seeing their counselor last year and seem to be happy and well-adjusted, though Flores is watchful in case the trauma bubbles up again.
"They can talk if they need to," she said. "We're our own little therapy group."
But Flores doesn't let her grief, still deep, show in front of the children.
"I'm raising the kids the way Angie would want," she said. "Angie really did a great job with them.
"You know how they say, 'What would Jesus do?' I think, 'What would Angie do?'"
Kristin Rodine: 377-6447
The Idaho Statesman is pleased to offer this opportunity to share information and observations about what's in the news. Some comments may be reprinted elsewhere in the site or in the newspaper. We encourage lively, open debate but ask that you remain on topic. Comments that are profane, personal attacks or otherwise inappropriate are subject to removal.
@Nyx.CommentBody@