The Zavala County Deputy Who Did Something About the Uvalde Massacre

On Tuesday, January 13, 2026, the courtroom erupted when Velma Lisa Duran, sister of slain teacher Irma Garcia, snapped. "My sister went into the fatal funnel," Duran shouted. "She did it. Not you!" Her outburst interrupted testimony about the "fatal funnel"—law enforcement jargon for the first bodies through a door when bullets are flying.

The defendant, former school resource officer Adrian Gonzales, faces 29 counts of child endangerment. Prosecutors argue he abandoned his post while 19 children and two teachers died. The defense claims he was doing his job, gathering intelligence, coordinating. The state counters that other officers had clear sight lines to the shooter while Gonzales hid behind his radio.

Then Sergeant Joe Vasquez took the stand. His testimony presented a stark contrast to the defense narrative.

Vasquez wasn't even supposed to be there. He worked for Zavala County Sheriff's Office and was driving to the gym when the call came through. Active shooter at Robb Elementary. He diverted immediately. Only when he got closer did dispatch specify which school. His daughter attended Robb Elementary as a second-grader.

He arrived to find multiple officers crouched behind their patrol cars. Vasquez climbed out in shorts, sneakers, and a t-shirt. He strapped on his vest, loaded his rifle, and started walking toward the building. Officers pointed him in various directions. He kept walking. More officers told him where the shooter was. He kept walking. He knew this school because his daughter spent her days there.

What he found inside the hallway defied comprehension. Officers were lined up waiting. Vasquez asked if they planned to breach. They explained they'd already taken fire and were waiting for tactical units with a negotiator and shield. When tactical arrived, they lacked basic equipment. No battering ram. No ballistic shield. Someone eventually located a janitor's key.

The defense attorney had Vasquez explain the fatal funnel concept in excruciating detail. When a door opens into gunfire, the first responders through typically die while those behind neutralize the threat. Standard tactical doctrine treats these casualties as inevitable. The defense suggested officers were avoiding unnecessary deaths by waiting for proper equipment and strategy.

Vasquez described suggestion after suggestion he offered. Shoot through the windows from outside. Use an axe on the door. Each idea went nowhere. When they breached using the janitor's key, Vasquez expected bullets. Nothing came. He turned his head and saw the children's bodies. The shooter only began firing once officers entered the room, now facing the tactical team head-on. Vasquez was part of the team that confronted and killed the shooter.

With the threat neutralized, Vasquez ran to find his daughter. He boarded a bus headed to the Civic Center for evacuees. A child on board mentioned other kids hiding near a house. Vasquez stopped and collected them, too. He located his daughter, confirmed her safety, then returned to the school. Protocol required him to surrender his weapon and file reports. He'd just killed someone.

The fatal funnel defense crumbled under this context. Teachers like Irma Garcia died protecting students with their bodies because armed professionals were calculating acceptable losses in a hypothetical breach scenario. Vasquez, in his workout clothes, kept asking why they weren't moving.

His testimony confirmed what defense attorneys didn't want stated plainly. Adrian Gonzales occupied a position on the building's opposite side with no sight lines to the shooter. Other officers had direct views of Salvador Ramos walking toward the entrance.

One officer with a rifle watched the shooter approach the school building before he entered. That officer requested authorization to shoot. His supervisor never responded. By the time he stopped waiting for approval, Ramos had entered the building. Vasquez testified that the officer required no authorization whatsoever. An active threat gave him every legal justification to fire.

The prosecution's case hinges on a simple question. If an off-duty officer from another county in gym shorts could identify the problem and move toward the shooter, what stopped everyone else?

Duran's voice cut through the courtroom as Vasquez stepped down from the witness stand. Duran referenced the doors to classrooms 111 and 112, which testimony revealed had been unlocked. "Did she need a key? Why do you need a key? Wasn't it locked?" Duran cried out. "Y'all saying she didn't lock her door. She went into the fatal funnel. She did it. Not you."

Judge Sid Harle ordered Duran removed and barred her from returning for the remainder of the trial. He warned that further outbursts could result in a mistrial. The families sat in silence. They'd waited years for this accountability.

The defense emphasized what Gonzales did during those 77 minutes before the breach. He called for help. He found a map. He helped evacuate students from other parts of the school. He coordinated via radio. The prosecution countered that none of those actions stopped children from dying in classroom 112 while their teacher bled out trying to shield them.

Because the defense attorneys were successfully able to argue that Gonzales could not receive a fair trial in Uvalde County, where the massacre remains an open wound, the trial was moved to Nueces County Courthouse in Corpus Christi, 200 miles from Uvalde. Judge Sid Harle presides over proceedings that began January 6. The prosecution plans to call approximately 60 witnesses. The trial is on its way to its third week. If convicted on any of the 29 counts, Gonzales faces between six months and two years in state jail per charge. He waived his right to jury sentencing, choosing instead to let Harle determine his fate.

Vasquez left the stand having painted a portrait of what moving toward danger looks like, but his testimony about waiting for shields or keys or tactical units or supervisor approval awakened someone's outrage. As he stepped down, a sister's anguished cry pierced the courtroom—a reminder of what tactical protocols cost the victims on that day. His daughter was somewhere in that building, frightened but alive, while Irma Garcia had already given her life shielding her students with her own body.

@Santitos

@salinasmariasantos

Copyright © 2026 Maria Santos Salinas for FRONTeras.

All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed without permission. Sharing the original posts or links from FRONTeras on social media is allowed and appreciated.