The last words Joshua Orta heard his childhood best friend utter were “I’m sorry.” Then Ruben Ray Martinez, a slender 23-year-old, slumped back in the driver’s seat. An officer had fired repeatedly through the open window, at least one bullet piercing Ruben’s heart.
Josh, 25, saw officers in South Padre Island drag Ruben out of his car that night in March 2025. They dumped Ruben’s body onto the roadway where they handcuffed him while he appeared unconscious, according to body camera footage. Law enforcement forced Josh into a police car, where he remained for more than four hours before officers moved him to a windowless interrogation room at around 5 a.m.
Ruben, police told Josh, was dead.
Three hours later and about 300 miles away, a state trooper pounded on the door of Ruben’s San Antonio home. His mother, Rachel Reyes, a 48-year-old nurse and health insurance administrator, heard the officer’s words: “On behalf of the State of Texas, we regret to inform you that your son, Ruben Martinez, passed away last night.”
There had been an accident in the Rio Grande Valley. Ruben, who had never left San Antonio on his own before, wasn’t involved in the crash. He came upon it by chance then went down a lane that he “wasn’t supposed to” and “tapped” an officer with his car, the trooper told Reyes. Another officer shot Ruben.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” exclaimed the mother, who in her shock defaulted to an apology. “Is the officer hurt?” she recalled asking. No, the trooper said, the cop was fine.
It would be almost a year later when Reyes and Josh would finally learn that the man who shot Ruben was a federal immigration officer — a revelation that stoked their grief and ignited fresh anger at the government after months of unanswered questions.
That finding, exposed by a national watchdog group’s unrelated lawsuit in February, so shocked and enraged Josh that his family believes it may have contributed to his death hours later in an alcohol-fueled car crash. For Ruben’s mother, a former Trump voter, the government’s obfuscation regarding the details of the night destroyed her trust in institutions she previously respected.
They didn’t realize it, but Ruben’s death would be the first known killing by immigration agents of an American under Trump’s second administration. By comparison, the Minneapolis slayings in January by immigration agents of Renée Good, a mother of three, and Alex Pretti, an armed nurse with a gun permit, roiled the nation. Both were white, middle-class and protesting immigration enforcement, and their killings were broadcast in almost real time to the world. Ruben, a Hispanic man born and raised in San Antonio, had never protested and few civilians have come forward about their footage of his death.
Whereas local prosecutors in Minneapolis charged at least one immigration agent there with assault for their alleged actions during that crackdown, a Cameron County grand jury declined this spring to indict officers in Ruben’s slaying.
Reyes said that the apparent reluctance of authorities to provide details and accountability for what happened has her believing that the government is trying to “cover up” its mistakes in her son’s death. She now views that as a “pattern” by the Trump administration in attempting to evade responsibility for suspected failures.
“This is a young, sweet, funny, silly boy who spent his first night outside of his home,” Reyes said in her first public interview from her home. “He did not deserve this.”
Spokespeople for the Department of Homeland Security and Immigration and Customs Enforcement did not respond to detailed questions. Neither did the South Padre Police Department, Cameron County District Attorney, nor the Texas Department of Public Safety overseeing the Texas Rangers investigating the shooting.
Acting ICE director Todd Lyons responded in an email that his agency stands by the grand jury’s finding that the federal agent should not be criminally charged.
“This incident was investigated from every possible angle by an independent body, and it cleared our officer,” said Lyons, declining to answer other questions, including about the involved officers’ training, history or experience.
Josh’s mother Virginia Mandujano, who has never before spoken publicly, also called for accountability, saying she believes her son perhaps wouldn’t have died in that manner if he had not been so tormented by witnessing the death of his friend. Immigration agents are there for “one purpose only and that’s to deport. Not to play cop,” said the 46-year-old home health aid in an interview.
When Josh finally made it home to San Antonio from South Padre, he was exhausted. As the eldest boy, he was not one to cry, but he was sobbing, alarming his family who had never seen him in such a state.
“They shot my best friend Ruben, like they just shot him,” his brother recalled Josh telling him. “I legit watched my friend die right in front of me.”
Later that evening, Josh posted a story of him and Ruben on Instagram: “Lost my bf last night my head fuked up but we gone meet again.”
Conflicting accounts
Josh and Ruben met in kindergarten, their families said, and instantly became friends. Neither were close to their biological fathers, who had separated from their mothers when the boys were young. As Catholics growing up in San Antonio’s largely Hispanic South Side, both knew to respect law enforcement. Their mothers had instilled that in them, a belief in part bolstered by their proximity to Lackland’s U.S. Air Force Base.
