July 4 block party shooting victim's family urges change, remembers 'good person' slain
Venecca Thornhill didn’t want the image of her son at the morgue to replace her final memory of him: happy, smiling and crossing the grass in front of a window at a family Fourth of July get-together.
Roughly five hours after that memory was formed, Venecca and her husband, Andre, of Romulus, got a call that 23-year-old Jordan Thornhill — Mr. Fun Guy, Mr. Look What I Can Do giving everything 110%, the one person they never had to worry about, the Michigan State University graduate, the guy with the big smile — had been shot.
He was fatally struck by gunfire about 12:50 a.m. July 5 at a block party in the 14000 block of Cherrylawn Street in northwest Detroit, police said.
Police are still investigating the shooting and did not provide details of the circumstances, but family said it took place as Jordan simply tried to see some fireworks with friends.
His younger brother found him after the shooting and now the whole family is left reeling, seeking justice and change in the block party culture that injured 24 and killed three people over that weekend. And they want people to know who Jordan was.
“They killed a good person,” said his 16-year-old sister, Brooklyn.
Their last hug
Both of Jordan’s parents are from Detroit’s west side, but they raised their three kids in Romulus in a quest to keep them safe, his mom said. Parents try to protect their children from so much.
“This is something that I couldn’t protect Jordan from,” Venecca, 52, said, her voice shaking.
Jordan’s folks picked him up from the airport on the Fourth of July after a series of trips including one to Atlanta, where he planned to move in a year.
He’d graduated from MSU in December after landing a scholarship to the school, the family said. He already had a business shooting event photos and videos with a friend from his days at Renaissance High School in Detroit. He was doing political canvassing, looking for a job in his field of packaging and wanted to live at a Detroit family property for a year before moving down south.
Jordan was tired, not talking too much, as they drove that day, but he perked up at the family party in Oak Park, particularly when some of his Omega Psi Phi fraternity brothers joined, the family said. He was smiling, laughing and joking.
Eventually, he told his parents he was going to head out to a couple of other barbecues; his dad, 53, noticed he hadn’t eaten much, seemingly saving up an appetite.
Jordan went to give his mom a hug in the house, but she playfully brushed him off, allowing only a partial hug. He hadn’t given her a proper hug at the airport, she teased him.
“He was like, ‘OK, Mom, I'm going to give it to Dad,’ and he gave Dad a big old hug,” she said, later adding: “Had I known that was going to be my last time, I would have hugged him and not probably let him go.”
Instagram Stories and the call
Venecca typically checks her kids’ Instagram Stories at night, but she was tired.
If she had, she would have seen Jordan posting from the area of Fenkell Avenue, she said. She would have called him, told him not to stay long because she didn’t like that area.
Andre typically checks his son's shared location on his phone. He would have texted. But he was tired, too. He didn't check.
Andre woke up with heartburn, he said. About 10 minutes after trying to get back to sleep, their middle child, 18-year-old Chandler, called.
They’ve gleaned now that Jordan had called his brother for a ride home so as not to trouble the friend he’d ridden with, who lived the opposite way, the parents said. Chandler and Jordan had been on the phone together, Jordan giving directions to his location, when all of a sudden the sound of multiple gunshots came over the phone. Jordan stopped responding. Chandler, who was riding with friends, rushed to where Jordan had said he was. His brother was in the street. There were kids — young kids — everywhere.
Chandler called his parents in the state of a “meltdown” repeating the same thing, his father said.
“He said, ‘Jordan’s been shot, dad. Dad, Jordan’s been shot,’ ” Andre said.
A fraternity brother present ended up on the phone with the parents. He kept asking the first responders the hospital to which the parents should head. The responders kept not answering and the parents couldn’t hear any ambulance sirens on the phone.
Venecca, as a nurse of 20 years, thought to herself, “My baby ain’t here,” she said in a whisper.
‘Put down the guns’
Jordan’s death at a block party has been overshadowed by the mass block party shooting Sunday that left two dead and 19 others injured, the Thornhills said.
And worse, they believe if only Detroit police had released more information and if Detroit news groups had covered it more, Jordan’s death could have served as a warning.
“Had we did a little bit of a better job at covering my son's death ... maybe those kids wouldn't have been at that next block party,” Venecca said.
They’re glad officials are now cracking down on block parties, but it should have taken place a long time ago, the family said.
They’ve been told the block party where Jordan was killed was not permitted but was highly publicized. Venecca said such parties should take place only when put on by the community, attended by those involved in the organization, properly permitted and with police involvement.
Brooklyn, a teen now without her brother, said kids should be able to go to these parties without fear of someone having a gun.
Her parents always taught the siblings to keep their heads on a swivel but “we need to put these guns down,” she said.
Her dad agreed.
“Put the guns down. Quit being a coward. There's no reason for you to be randomly shooting. If you're not properly trained with a gun, you shouldn’t have a gun. If you don't know how to aim and hit whatever you’re trying to hit, you shouldn’t have it anyway.”
Left behind
Their home is full of flowers now, and memories — the couch Jordan liked to sleep on, the gray kitchen floor where Jordan used to practice his fraternity hopping, or stepping, and the wide, sparkling grin in photos of his high school graduation.
It’s the little things that trigger the sense of loss now for those who loved Jordan, Andre said.
Venecca keeps seeing Jordan’s car outside her home and believing, momentarily, her son is home.
His longtime friend and business partner, Ryan Thomas, keeps thinking his friend will call. They spoke two or three times a week.
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The 24-year-old Detroiter played football with Jordan at Renaissance, was fraternity brothers with him at MSU and ran the multimedia company, Raw Optics LLC, with him.
Jordan always had a fun new activity he wanted to do each day, be it skateboarding or playing basketball, Thomas said. He was a leader as fraternity chapter president, running community service projects, and a truly genuine, caring person who saw the best in people and embodied the fraternity motto “friendship is essential to the soul.”
He was “that person that’s going to push you to go further,” Thomas said.
And, in a way, Jordan helped push his father, even in death.
Andre had planned for just their extended family to identify his son at the county morgue.
Venecca felt she couldn’t do it yet and Andre initially didn’t think he had the strength. But he woke up that morning and thought “he wants me.”
“It was like he was like, ‘Come on, Dad. You can do it,’ ” Andre said.
Venecca waited with the receptionist. Andre selected a comfortable chair in the back row of the viewing room, he said. Officials showed his son’s face on the screen. Andre broke down. Some questions were asked. Then Andre was asked whether he had any questions. He didn’t, but he wanted them to turn the screen back on.
He wanted to know whether he’d seen correctly.
It looked like his son was smiling.
In recollecting their son’s life and death with the Free Press, the parents broke into tears as they recalled their conversation with doctors about what had happened to their son. And particularly, that doctors believe he died instantly, without feeling pain and without knowing what happened.
“I didn’t want my son to suffer, I can only imagine if he had to suffer,” Venecca said, her steady and at times even light voice turning froggy at the thought.
What his father saw at the morgue that day seemed to bear the doctors’ theory to be true, Venecca said, and that her son died happy and excited to be with friends and to see his brother.
It’s a small comfort.
No one was in custody in the shooting as of midday Thursday. Those with information on the incident can submit an anonymous tip to Crime Stoppers at 800-SpeakUp, Detroit Rewards TV or major crimes at 313-596-2260.
A GoFundMe has been started for the family.
This article originally appeared on Detroit Free Press: Block party shooting victim's family: 'Quit being a coward'
