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Reawakened Trayvon Martin His Shocking Secret Death Confession Kept from the George Zimmerman Defense

Reawakened Trayvon Martin His Shocking Secret Death Confession Kept from the George Zimmerman Defense

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Reawakened Trayvon Martin His Shocking Secret Death Confession Kept from the George Zimmerman Defense

389 pagine
5 ore
Jun 23, 2012


Investigative journalist John Swifterson reviewed thousands of confidential files and clandestine interviews, uncovering the Re-Awakened story ~ hailed as the controversial, shocking secret death confession of Trayvon Martin. As chronicled by Swifterson's step-by-step review, this vital information has been withheld from the legal defense team of the accused murder suspect in Trayvon Martin's deat

Jun 23, 2012

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Reawakened Trayvon Martin His Shocking Secret Death Confession Kept from the George Zimmerman Defense - John Swifterson

"Re-Awaked ~ Trayvon Martin His Shocking Secret Death Confession

Kept from the George Zimmerman Defense Team"

Another book from investigative journalist and author,

Editor and publisher John Swifterson

Copyright © 2012, By John Swifterson

Fix Bay Inc Publishing

Smashwords License Statement

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction

In whole or in part in any form

Swifterson, John

Crime. 2. True crime

This book/manual contains material protected under International and

Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use

Of this material is prohibited, under civil and federal and government penalties.


Table of Contents


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23


Author’s Message

About the Author


To Bonnie Sue de Rosales, Mariel Mercado,

Sheriff Juan Reyes, and Doctor Ricardo Sanchez,

Without whose valuable and dedicated assistance

This vital project would not have been possible.

Chapter 1

My best friend Mariel burst into tears and wailed loudly in grief when her husband of 15 years suffered a fatal heart seizure and stopped breathing.

I strived with every fiber of my being to remain strong both emotionally and physically, as Mariel wrapped her arms tightly around me. My husband Roberto stood beside us, everyone shocked although we all undoubtedly had feared this outcome for several days.

Together we stood as if confused ducklings at the center of the living room of my small wood-framed home purchased with Roberto shortly after our marriage nine years earlier—tucked deep into the barrio of la Libertad.

Weeping profusely, Mariel’s daughters Monique and Emily hugged her as well. All five of us soon knelt beside the body of poor Angelo Mercado.

His corpse lay on the living room couch looking more like that of a snoozing teddy bear than a man fatally injured in an earthquake nearly three weeks earlier.

At age 37, Angelo had suffered extensive back, neck and head injuries in the 6.8-Magnitude earthquake that struck the Negros Oriental region of the Philippines on the morning of February 6, 2012.

On the evening of February 25, exactly 19 days after the temblor that took the lives of 108 other people, our longtime friend, Doctor Ricardo Sanchez continued his valiant efforts to revive poor Angelo via cardio pulmonary resuscitation. Two paramedics assisted, the medical team surrounding the couch in the living room of my home.

As these medical professionals did their job, in unison with Mariel, her daughters and my husband, I prayed for the Lord to give us a miracle. Roman Catholics, we recited the Rosary as I began remembering when the quake had hit at just past 6 o’clock in the morning, sending a deafening, unforgiving mudslide cascading through the Mercado home and dozens of nearby residences.

On that fateful morning at precisely 9:17, exactly three hours and four minutes after the temblor, Angelo had been unconscious, barely alive, when rescuers dug his bloodied, mud-caked body from the rubble. Right away an ambulance rushed him as quickly as possible in extremely adverse conditions to Community Hospital—traversing across nearly 17 miles of cracked and badly damaged roads.

Within two hours after Angelo’s arrival in the Emergency Room doctors proclaimed that they did not expect him to live past that afternoon. Naturally, on that fateful morning, nearly three weeks before Angelo’s eventual demise in the living room of my home, this news had devastated Mariel. She had just learned that the couples’ two other children—sons—9-year-old Clifton and 3-year-old Charlie had been killed in that morning’s unforgiving temblor—buried together, hugging each other tightly as if inseparable angels under six feet of heavy, wet mud.

Exactly three days after initially being hospitalized, Angelo had shocked and surprised us all by demanding to go home despite his severe injuries. Doctors warned him to stay in the Intensive Care Unit. The physicians declared that they could not be held responsible if Angelo’s wounds became gangrenous, due to his insistence on refusing to give the injuries adequate time to heal in a sanitary hospital environment.

Since Angelo and Mariel still lacked a house of their own to return to, Roberto and I invited them to use our home as a temporary residence along with their daughters—until the family could settle into a place of their own.

Little did any of us know at the time that before that month was out poor Angelo would die, sent into a completely different Universe—where he would spend quality time with the Spirit of a 17-year-old African-American male, Trayvon Martin—fatally shot on the other side of the world in the community of Sanford Florida in the United States.

In the following pages, you’ll get the unique opportunity to review this fully documented, indisputable account of Trayvon’s exploits in the After-World—the details chronicled and time-stamped by me long before the African-American Florida teenager emerged as a household name.

My name is Bonnie Sue de Rosales, and I am one of 17 documented and certified witnesses to Angelo’s magnetic, compelling story tying him to the Spirit of Trayvon.

Each of us citizens of la Libertad in the Philippines witnessed Angelo in death, we saw his own miraculous re-emergence and recovery into life—and we heard his compelling tale of a Heavenly interaction with the deceased African-American teenager.

Just as important, all of us heard our beloved friend Angelo tell his story involving the black teenager from Florida—many days before news about that fatal shooting spread rapidly throughout the U.S. and eventually into the international news media.

Understandably, the experience has left all of us in complete awe. Of course, I can never label myself as the official spokesperson for each of the 17 individuals who personally witnessed Angelo’s re-awakening from death—prior to his magnetic, unforgettable revelations about his interactions with Trayvon in the After-Life. In that regard, all I can proclaim with complete certainty is that I have become convinced beyond any shadow of a doubt that there is a generous and kind Creator of the Universe.

Above all else, He, Our Lord God and Blessed Loving Creator, wants us to Love and care for each other, fully and unashamedly—giving all that we have now or ever will have to those in genuine need of assistance.

Naturally, during the three-month period immediately after Angelo’s life-after-death experience, word gradually spread about this miracle of miracles. Yet despite the irrefutable proof of Angelo’s After-Life experience with the Florida teenager’s Soul, some people, particularly journalists and some media commentators began to openly question the authenticity of this certifiably accurate account. Some detractors even went so far as to call this an all-out hoax.

Flying straight into the face of such detractors, the fully documented and verifiable account on the following pages proves beyond any doubt whatsoever that there is a God—who wants us all to know the shocking details of Trayvon’s shocking secret death confession.

Luckily, perhaps as a gift from the Lord Himself, before Angelo’s eventual final death I managed to chronicle his tale on videotape and via audio recordings.

As proof, as you’ll soon discover herein and in the pages that follow, all these interviews were time-stamped and logged—preserved for all time as irrefutable documentation

Yes, what you’ll soon discover thanks to Angelo’s experience with Trayvon is that there is an all-powerful God—who knows fully of virtually everything we do, every thought, every word, every action—from the bad to the good and everything in between.

To put this into perspective, you need to keep in mind that at the time all this occurred none of us knew who Trayvon Martin was—instead, to those of us who knew and Loved Angelo, we were amazed and startled—more accurately, stunned—by the fact that this Filipino native had come back to life, if only on a temporary basis.

In order to put all this into clear and concise perspective for you, I feel an overriding and compelling need to set the scene. Before fully grasping the power and Universe-changing complexity of this story, you’ll need to understand and empathize with precisely who Angelo Mercado was—his personality, what made him tick.

Only then, by first fully grasping and appreciating this Filipino man’s unique personality and situation can you understand the interactive nature of his Spiritual relationship with Trayvon.

Like 20 million people within this region of the Philippines known as Negros Oriental, Angelo’s native language was Cebuano—which the vast majority of schools and universities throughout this region refuse to officially recognize or even to teach.

Unlike Trayvon the African-American teenager from Florida who grew up in an affluent society that usually provides basic comforts such as TVs, Internet access and cars even for the poor, as a child Angelo had often gone for days at a time without food or shelter. You see, throughout the Philippines, 90 percent of the people live in abject poverty while only 10 percent of the total population lives in a predictable and safe environment, enjoying regular meals.

Since I also come from an exceedingly poor Filipino family, I can fully relate to Angelo’s less-than-stellar financial background. I can relate to his sense of anger and frustration. And I can relate to his internal emotional pain in this regard.

You see, I have known Angelo and his immediate family since my early childhood. Ironically, hundreds of years ago the founders of our community chose the term La Libertad—which when translated into English essentially means The Liberty. From my view, this was done intentionally to fool the impoverished among us into believing the deception that everything is okay—that all is right with the world.

Yet the nagging fact always remained that the vast majority of us living in this region of Negros Oriental within the Philippines were either destitute or near the level of extreme poverty at the very best.

From my view, long before that brief period in 2012 when he spoke of his Heavenly experience with Trayvon, my childhood classmate Angelo had been an extremely angry youngster in almost every regard. Without necessarily knowing why within his own heart, even during his early years little Angelo always seemed to lash out at everyone who made any attempt at all to Love him or to show him even a faint degree of kindness.

As if it happened just yesterday, I still vividly recall the time when we were both six years old when Angelo took a full three minutes to gnaw a deep, bloody and gaping hole into the forearm of our fellow classmate, Jesus Ricardo. You see, the other little boy had made the fateful decision of borrowing a banana from Angelo’s lunchbox during recess on a particularly hot day—the kind of weather where your forehead turns into the Niagara Falls.

Upon discovering this theft, at least in my eyes little Angelo became the Devil himself, fighting with a violent ferocity that surely rivaled that of an enraged gorilla at the heart of the old-time Africa jungle—long before burgeoning human populations wrecked those ecosystems. I have never seen a human being act with such uncensored hate as I did on that day when Angelo attacked little Jesus, and God willing, I hope with all my heart that I never will see such a sight again.

This is not to imply by any stretch of the imagination that Angelo was a pathetic, totally unlikable character in every regard. For some reason that I never could fully understand, there was something about the guy that made people want to like him no matter how despicable he may have behaved on occasion.

Long before he linked up with Trayvon Martin in the Spirit world, in a physical sense Angelo began to appear almost all of the time as if a saint—the epitome of what almost any mother would want her good boy, her dutiful son to look like. In fact and this is the God’s-honest truth, while growing up I often heard many people make similar comments about him, phrases such as he’s the adorable guy who looks like a perfect angel—forgiving the fact he acts like a mischievous Devil. Indeed, folks often admitted that they wanted to hate the kid, but for some inexplicable reason they usually ended up adoring him.

On occasion, during our mutual growing-up years in the early 1980s Angelo lived in a small tent with his immediate family in a wooded, hilly area just outside town—its official countable population at the time nearly 40,000 Souls, similar to today’s total.

Like most devout Catholic families, his parents, Jacob and Angelica Mercado did everything possible to ensure he regularly attended Sunday school and parochial classes on weekdays. Whatever their own particular financial condition happened to be at any given time, the elder Mercadoes embraced deep Christian values, which they endeavored to pass on to all nine of their children.

The largest of them all by far in physical stature, Angelo had been the eighth to come along. His little sister, Susanna, born on July 9, 1977 just two years after him, had succumbed at four years old in October 1981, a victim of typhoid fever. In life, folks often had described little Susanna as a perfect replica of tiny Shirley Temple of 1930s movie star fame, forgiving the fact that the Filipino child possessed a glistening brown skin—a sharp contrast to the adorable American starlet’s sugary white aura.

Another sharp contrast became apparent because Shirley always beamed brightly on screen, the epitome of good health—the complete opposite of the sickly Susanna. The Filipino girl’s sudden, unexpected death came during a period when Angelo and I each attended the same first grade class. Although Angelo had generally been an angry, rambunctious and wild boy for the most part, during the first few months of that school year I witnessed a rarely seen kind-hearted, friendly and loving part of his Soul—at least on the few occasions that I saw him playing in the schoolyard with his little sister.

From my perspective, even at the time as a small child myself, I sensed that somehow Angelo considered little Susanna as perhaps his only true and loyal friend in the entire world. At least from the times I saw him during that period, little Angelo always treated almost everyone else that he interacted with in a high degree of contempt. By sharp contrast, he revered little Susanna as if she were a mere feather blowing in a carefree wind, something that needed to be cherished and deeply cared for—to hold in the highest regard. At least in my eyes, the 6-year-old Angelo behaved like the Devil himself most of the time, yet he also somehow seemed as if wanting to truly become one of God’s most obedient, favored children—particularly when enjoying the company of his cuddly little sister.

It wasn’t until shortly after Angelo’s death in February 2012 at age 37 that I managed to obtain official school records that enabled me to verify the next critical phase of his compelling life story. Eager and determined to convey the full detail of his background in my report, which you’re reading now, I befriended Justine Greenwald, records secretary of the Catholic Saint Francis of Assisi Elementary School that I had attended with little Angelo and dozens of other impoverished children on the outskirts of la Libertad.

Armed with the authorized, notarized written consent of Angelo’s widow—my best friend, Mariel—in early March of 2012, just two weeks after his death, I obtained full and uncensored access to school records.

A quick initial glance of the documents left me both shocked and mortified. As a child Angelo’s personal problems and his revolting behavior had been far more horrific than I had previously realized. Keep in mind that for the most part during those years and even well into his adult life, this person had a smile so genuine that you could swear his brilliant, joyful countenance seemed so warm that he could almost melt an ice cube in a flash.

Yet at least as indicated by the written, documented recollections of his personal teachers and even some classmates, throughout adolescence his behavior mirrored that of the Devil. The first significant warning sign that something had gone terribly wrong within Angelo’s psyche erupted on a Monday, immediately following his beLoved little sister Susanna’s weekend death from natural causes.

The official school document chronicling the incident, signed by Monsignor Leo O’Reilly, was stamp-dated at 4:17 in the afternoon on Monday, October 19, 1981, when placed into the official school record.

Upon entering her first-grade classroom for the start of today, Sister Mary Bonaventure discovered all windows to the room had been smashed. In huge red paint, the following symbols had been scribbled in graffiti style—Nazi swastika; the five-pointed pentagram Devil star; finger images of the bird; and across the blackboard this phrase: ‘Jesus kills little girls! Screw God! Love the Devil!’ Under this was signed in black paint, ‘Angelo Mercado.’

From this point, Monsignor O’Reilly’s report detailed additional damage: the Holy Bible, ripped into hundreds of pieces, strewn all across the floor; feces, smeared in smatterings atop the desks normally assigned to female students; small cups each filled with urine, left atop the tables of the male students; and a dead cat—formerly skinned alive, the carcass spread-eagle atop the table of the class teacher, Sister Bonaventure at the front of the room."

Rather than confront the boy directly on the morning that this vandalism was discovered, the Monsignor chose to arrange an in-person meeting with Angelo’s parents during the lunch period that afternoon. This senior priest’s subsequent report stated that both parents had wept during the session, each blaming the incident on their son’s inability to cope with tragic personal loss—exacerbated by his own excessive and extreme, sometimes repulsive, behavior problems that had steadily worsened starting in early childhood.

At least according to Monsignor O’Reilly’s account, the parents agreed to allow the Catholic Church to punish their son in keeping with the wishes of the Bishop and the church hierarchy. The monsignor ended his report by listing his recommended punishment for the boy—a bare-ass whipping, 40 lashes minimum and solitary confinement for no less than 40 days.

When I finally told Angelo’s widow, my best friend Mariel of this discovery in Mid-March of 2012, she refrained from weeping as I had expected her to do. Since she had been my friend for many years, I thought—incorrectly—that I had known how she would react—a complete breakdown laced with tears and incessant wailing for at least two hours. Instead, holding her head high and speaking in a calm, steady-paced and even tone, she said: Yes, my husband was abused by the Catholic priests. Many of us sensed during our early childhoods that the church was Evil. But at the time we never dreamed the abusive corruption had emerged to the depths of such wretched sin. Angelo told me all along through our married life—I haven’t revealed this to you until now, Bonnie Sue, because there are some privacy issues involving spouses that wives choose to respect.

This comment, its level-headed tone and its degree of wisdom coupled with acceptance struck me as odd. Certainly, all of us who had interacted with Angelo the previous month had been forced to adapt to our own emotional changes, sparked by his vivid revelations about interactions with Trayvon Martin in the Spiritual realm.

The most obvious transition from my view had been the new-found ability of most of us to speak of ourselves honestly and openly, in some instances revealing personal flaws.

For her part, Mariel said simply and to the point—referring to herself—that I have been imperfect. Her main flaw had been her own occasional suicidal thoughts, but mostly in loving Angelo in all the wrong ways, instead of in the right ways, Forget the fact that most people, mostly folks who never truly knew how this guy ticked, had deemed him unworthy of understanding and of any empathy whatsoever.

Yet since the early 1990s when they first began courting, Mariel had known and kept this deep secret that filled him with utter shame throughout adult life—those details of physical and mental abuse at the hands of Evil priests. In private, well before the births of their four children, the two girls and two boys—the lads now deceased—Angelo had told his wife specific details of how those men of the cloth had sexually abused him.

From Mariel’s view, the entire world needs to know of the Catholic Church’s negative impact on her late husband’s Soul and on his Spirit. Only this way, she said, can objective observers truly understand the trials and tribulations that Trayvon and Angelo went through together in their mutual journey across the vast, limitless spectrum of the cosmic Spirit world—a joint venture into the After-Life.

It wasn’t until a one-on-one session that I had with Mariel when conducting research for this book that I noticed a trashcan at the corner of her immediate family’s new make-shift living room—actually, a small tent where she lived with her two daughters. At her insistence, the three of them had moved there a week or so after Angelo died for the final time—on March 9, 2012, exactly 10 days after he had re-awakened from a three-day journey through the After-World with Trayvon. A quick glance into the trash revealed to me that the container was chuck-full of religious artifacts such as rosaries, crucifixes and even Catholic Bibles.

Shocking, isn’t it—at least to the casual observer, Mariel said to me that very moment, perhaps expressing in words what I had been unable to think—at least at that juncture, so eloquently to myself. From what we have learned from Trayvon and from Angelo, all organized religion holds the stench of manure. The Spirits, especially the one true God, the all-wise, all-knowing, and all-caring God our Creator and all those who truly follow him, they know that all organized religion is Evil—worthy of nothing but the Evil, unless—and only if—Love, pure Love, unadulterated Love—reigns as the prevailing factor. Oh, blessed are the true children of the one true God, the loving, caring Lord.

Shortly after fully opening her heart on the religion issue, Mariel accepted my invitation to spend a relaxing evening at the Blue Fin Pub and Eatery.

Our Ladies Night Out for just the two of us was to come shortly after she shunned multi-million-dollar offers from three separate major U.S.-based book-publishing companies—each firm desperate for rights to chronicle in Trayvon Martin After-Life story.

Once word spread rapidly through inner circles of the media and communications industry of what we hailed as Trayvon Martin’s shocking secret death confession, just about everyone with hopes of any chance of landing the Trayvon-Angelo book deal struggled for a piece of this big-money pie. Surely 9,999 people out of every ten thousand individuals in a precarious financial situation such as Mariel’s would have lunged without any hesitation at the chance of such instant riches.

Instead, mirroring a request given by her late husband during his 10-day Re-Awakening period, she chose me—rather asked me—to handle the research and writing without the benefit of any signed book deal with a major publishing house, perhaps largely because by that point I had already done most of that work anyway. Keep in mind that everything had happened at lightning speed, those of us intimately involved fully unaware at the time that we were on to an earth-shattering blockbuster story.

Like I say, rather than concentrating primarily on the Trayvon Martin aspect following Angelo’s re-emergence into this world—before his eventual final death, the mere fact that our friend Angelo had died and come back to life motivated those of us who were close to him. Needless to say, by the time Mariel and I arranged to venture out for our evening together, two of the publishing companies had sent separate representatives to the Philippines in hopes of getting her to sign a multi-million dollar book deal.

Mariel continually surprised me with her own cunning. To my great delight, she hid out at our mutual friend Juanita’s home when the publishing house representatives struggled to track her down.

Under her strict instructions, Mariel’s attorney, Juan Velazquez, separately told the publishing company executives flat-out: Go away. My client doesn’t care an iota about the money you want to give her, even if it’s mountains of cash.

Unfamiliar with our feisty, independent and God-fearing Filipino culture and failing to find Mariel, let alone interview any of her closest friends, the separate New York City publishing representatives each high-tailed it back to the United States.

Or, at least that’s what we had been told at the time.

Needless to say, I considered Mariel’s decision a gutsy move, especially because at the time she barely eked out a meager living as a low-paid seamstress—by this point living in a tent within a typical Filipino shantytown with her two surviving daughters in a wooded area just outside la Libertad. My mind also began spinning due to this woman’s feistiness, her insistence that I write this chronology, attempting to convey the wondrous splendor that Trayvon and Angelo shared within the After-Life.

But I’m just a secretary, I had told my friend when she first told me of her late husband Angelo’s request that I create this book, chronicling what he had said about Trayvon after Re-Awakening from the dead. Despite her own busy work schedule, Mariel had approached me directly on the very day that her husband had—miraculously, and this is true—came back to life after being physically dead. I felt no option other than to be honest with her, proclaiming that I’ve never written any kind of article or story, let alone a book.

Poppycock, Mariel said, giving me one of those toothy grins of hers that let me know she still possessed those girlish mannerisms that had endeared her to me so long ago when we both were children living in extreme poverty. From that point forward in the conversation in my living room she commenced into a non-stop, eight-minute-long diatribe. Holding back nothing, jabbering straight through my numerous attempts to interrupt her, Mariel argued that I had seen and heard all these events first-hand—had spoken face-to-face many times with Angelo, interviewing him via audio and video when he described in colorful detail his many adventures in the Spirit world with Trayvon.

Like any cunning and feisty negotiator would, during that early phase through her tenacious filibustering Mariel literally wore me down emotionally and mentally—to the point that I felt no option other than to say yes to her demand that I handle the project.

Yet I avoided swallowing all the bait she threw my way, particularly her often-repeated, self-deprecating line depicting herself as dumber than a doornail, illiterate and fully incapable of telling any credible story regarding this essential, critical and Spiritual, Love-based saga that all the world desperately needs to learn about.

Stop putting yourself down, Mariel, I demanded of her during that early phase.

"I’m stupid

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