Celisia Stanton (28:20)
While that narrative was playing out in public, another story was unfolding much closer to the Tibbetts family. The trial of Christian Behena Rivera. After months of investigation, police believed they had their man. But now they had to convince a jury. And early on, the case hit a major snag. When Christian was first questioned, they'd read him his Miranda rights incorrectly. They left out the line that says, anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law. It's one of the most critical pieces of the warning, and it wasn't there. Eventually, his rights were re read properly, but only after he'd taken them to Molly's body. Christian's attorneys argued that everything he said before that moment should be thrown out, and the state agreed. Any statements Christian made to investigators before 5:50am when he led them to Molly's body were inadmissible. It was a huge mistake, one that could have jeopardized the entire case. Luckily, the prosecution did have other evidence connecting Christian to Molly's murder. Surveillance footage of the customized Chevy Malibu circling Molly on her run. And then there was forensic evidence, too. Blood found in the trunk of Christian's car matched Molly. And all of this was paired with Christian's shorter confession in the cornfield after his Miranda rights were properly delivered. As for the defense, Christian's story had changed. He rescinded the confession he'd originally made to investigators and was now weaving a new tale. According to ABC News, Christian took the stand and claimed that on the night of Molly's disappearance, he was kidnapped. He said he was home showering when two armed men broke in, that they forced him to drive them through Brooklyn, that they spotted Molly jogging, circled her several times, and made Christian stop. That one of them got out. That when he returned they opened the trunk, they drove to a cornfield, and that before disappearing down the road, the men threatened to hurt his ex girlfriend if he ever spoke up. He said that when he looked in the trunk, Molly was there, that he carried her body into the cornfield, that he didn't call police, not because he was guilty but because he was scared. It was a story that was wildly different from anything he'd said before, and in the end, the jury didn't believe it. By the time Christian Behena Rivera was convicted, Molly's family had already lived through the worst kind of grief and the worst kind of spectacle. The press, the politics, the performative mourning, and then the silence. But justice, real justice, was never the end of the story. Because this story isn't just about punishment. It's about care, about community, about who we become when everything falls apart. And in the Tibbetts family, that looked like what happened one week after Molly's funeral. As Laura Calderwood told the Washington Post, she and her son Scott were sitting at home. Molly's absence was glaring, the sadness all consuming. Scott was staring down at his phone. Then he looked up and asked, mom, can we adopt Ulysses? Ulysses was a kid from school, a friend of Scott's. Laura told him no, not because she didn't care, but because adopt wasn't the right word. I can't adopt Ulysses, she said. But if he needs a place to live so he can finish his senior year, of course he can live with us. Laura cleared out the guest room, the one overflowing with flowers, with condolence cards and gifts, the one that had held their grief. Into that room moved a boy named ulysses Felix Sandoval, 17 years old, a senior, a BGM high, a football player, a friend of Scott's. Everyone called him Uli. Brooklyn, Iowa, was the only town Uli had ever known. His parents were Mexican immigrants who worked at Yerraby Farms. It was the same farm where Christian had worked, the same farm where Yuli's mom used to cook for Christian, where his dad helped him become a good farmhand. At one point, Christian had even dated Yuli's cousin. They'd had a daughter together. They were close, closer than most people in town knew. So when Christian was arrested, Yuli's family panicked not because they knew he was guilty, but because it hurt them, too, and because they knew what people might think. The press descended on the farm. Reporters dug into the workers lives. Awful racist calls made their way to Yuli's family's phone line. Yuli tried desperately to get his parents to stay, argued that the vitriol was coming from outsiders, not people in Brooklyn. That if they waited it out, things would go back to normal. But the fear became too much, and Yuli's parents made the call. It wasn't safe anymore. The day Scott had asked Laura about adopting Yuli, he'd gotten a text that read, I got home to a basically empty house except for my mom. My parents are moving up to Illinois. I don't know what's going to happen. Scott texted back quickly, live here. We've got an extra room. Yuli arrived with everything he owned. A duffel bag of clothes, a few video games, his phone. One he used to call his parents every night. Laura remembers how quiet he was at first, how carefully he moved. Always polite, always asking permission. A guest in the house of a girl whose death had upended his world, too. There's a moment I read about in a Washington Post article that I couldn't get out of my head. An ordinary night. Laura and Yuli sitting down for dinner, the TV on. In the background, a news anchor's voice cut through the silence. We simply cannot tolerate the continued invasion of this country. But Laura and Yuli didn't turn it off. They didn't talk about it either. Instead, they ate and talk about basketball, about the upcoming season. The moment is small, but striking. Two humans at the dinner table, both dealing with the weight of their own pain. But still, life goes on. It feels so unlikely, them together, sharing a meal. Yet there they were, saying so little but, you know, holding so much, using what they had left to make something different but still beautiful. Over time, Yuli told Laura about Christian, that he was funny, generous, that he'd worked hard, sent money back to Mexico to help his parents build a house. Laura didn't know what to say. She didn't want to hear it. But she listened. She listened when Yuli told her how his mom used to cook for Christian. She listened when he said he used to call Yuli's cousin mi princessa hermosa. And reading all of this, I wondered if Yuli ever said out loud that none of them had seen it coming. Maybe he didn't have to. Maybe Laura already knew. Then one morning, Laura got a text from Yuli. Are you working today? She was, she told him so. He didn't explain, though, just said, that's fine. Don't worry about it. She didn't think much of it at the time, until later, when the call came in. Yuli had been hurt at basketball practice. His ankle might be broken. He might miss the whole season. Laura's first feeling wasn't frustration or even alarm. It was something else. Worry, yes, but also something quieter and quicker. Basketball wasn't just a sport for Yuli. It was part of what kept him in Brooklyn, part of what made staying feel possible. She texted him again. You must want something for dinner. Uli texted back. Could I have some Mexican? A burrito steak? She drove to a nearby restaurant, picked it up, brought it home, felt, for the first time in a long time, useful. She had three children for a reason, she told the Washington Post. And now, in a small way, she'd said she was trying to fill that void. Because by then, so much had been taken. Molly's story, her memory, her meaning. People had twisted it into something she wouldn't have recognized. But Laura hadn't forgotten who her daughter was, she believed. No, she knew that Molly would have wanted her to open that door, to make space for the boy who lost his home, to choose care over fear. As Laura said later in an interview with ABC News, I knew I did the right thing. And I saw it from the day he moved in. And I see it every day. Yuli, polite, grieving, caught between worlds, deserved safety, deserved care, deserved the chance to finish high school in the only town he'd ever known. And in giving him that chance, Laura didn't just offer comfort. She reclaimed something. Maybe not peace, but purpose. Molly was killed in 2018, but even as recently as 2024, Trump's team has continued to invoke her name. When Rolling Stone reached out for comment for a piece they were doing with Laura, the Trump campaign didn't respond directly. Instead, a spokesperson for the Republican National Committee issued a statement. President Trump is fighting to ensure that no other family has to endure the tragedy of losing a child at the hands of an illegal immigrant. Only he will secure our border to honor the memory of victims like Molly Tibbets. Honor. That word stuck with me, because what does it really mean to honor someone to say their name on stage or to carry forward the way they move through the world. None of us know the people will become in tragedy. And not all families have responded the way Molly's did. According to the Washington Post, some grieving parents turned their pain into activism or politics or revenge. One mother said the loss of her son made her a Republican. Another father said he wouldn't rest until he found the trash who killed my kid. And I think it's important to acknowledge those differences, because this story, Molly's story, has been politicized so many times over. And yet at its core, it's not just about policies or headlines. It's about pain, about people, about families that will never be made whole again. It's a reminder to move with empathy, to speak carefully, to tell stories in ways that still leave space for the ones living them. Because Molly's family has always been clear. This wasn't the story she would have wanted. They've asked again and again and again for her name not to be used to stoke fear. And instead they're offered something else, a different kind of legacy. In his op ed for the Des Moines Register, Molly's father, Rob Tibbetts, wrote, we have the opportunity now to take heed of the lessons that Molly taught. Humanity, fairness and courage. For most of the summer, the search for Molly brought this nation together like no other pursuit. There was a common national will that transcended opinion, race, gender and geography. Let's not lose sight of that miracle. Let's not lose sight of Molly. Let's build bridges, not walls. Her aunt Kim echoed that, too. She told Rolling Stone, there's a fundamental choice between fear and hope. And I want to walk in the light. You can't do that while holding hate in your heart. And I think that is what Molly would want. She would not want us to wallow in anger. She would want us to enjoy our lives as much as we could and lead with love. And then there's Laura. Every night she's home, she still walks down the hall to turn on the light in Molly's room, just like she did when Molly was alive, just like she did when her daughter stayed up late reading. Anne Frank's diary was one of her favorites. Laura says that Molly's room will always be her room, even now. Even still, she told Rolling Stone that her daughter had a great 20 years. And she believes full heartedly that if Molly had been told her murder would spare other future victims, that there wouldn't have been a choice to make. She would make that deal in a heartbeat, as hard as that is to hear and, you know, even harder to reconcile. I've told enough of these stories to understand what Laura meant. Because justice isn't always a verdict. Sometimes it's a guest room cleared of flowers, a dinner shared across silence, a burrito from a small town Mexican restaurant, a bedroom light turned on before bed and off again later. Just the way she liked it. This, I've come to believe, is what it looks like to reclaim a daughter story not through punishment, but through love. Hey, before you tap away, I want to take a second to spotlight an organization doing really important work. After everything we talked about today, it's clear that justice isn't just what happens in a courtroom. It's about how we show up for one another, how we protect the vulnerable, how we respond when entire communities get turned into scapegoats. So this week's action item is about care and solidarity. The Iowa Migrant Movement for Justice, or mmj, is an immigrant led organization working across the state to support and empower immigrant and refugee communities in places just like Brooklyn. They provide high quality legal services, help families navigate the immigration system and organize for long term structural change. Their work is about safety, it's about dignity, and it's about making Iowa a place where everyone, regardless of where they are born, can belong. If you want to donate, get involved or just learn more, head to www.iowamj.org. as always, you can find a full list of today's sources and action items@truercrimepodcast.com and if you want to keep in touch between episodes, Truer Crime is on Instagram and xrewercrimepod. You can also find me on Instagram and TikTok, Alicia Stanton, and through my weekly newsletter, SincerelyCelecia@sincerelycelecia.substack.com True Crime is created, hosted and written by me, Celicia Stanton and is a production of Tenderfoot TV in association with Odyssey. Additional writing, research and production by Olivia Husenfeld. Executive producers are myself, Donald Albright and Payne Lindsay. Editing by Liam Luxon, artwork by Station 16, original music by Jay Ragsdale and makeup and vanity set mix by Dayton Cole. Thank you to Oren Rosenbaum and the team at uta, the Nordic Group and the team at Odyssey. For more podcasts like True Crime, search Tenderfoot TV on your favorite podcast app or visit us@Tenderfoot TV. Thanks for listening.
