People who know James Kevin Tillory say he's someone they can count on in tough times.
They say there isn't a machine he can't fix, or a home repair he hasn't mastered, or a favor he won't do for a friend.
They say he's selfless beyond any normal understanding of the term. That he looks out for his neighbors, and does odd jobs for the old-timers who watched him grow up.
They say he's a loving caretaker to his mom, a widow with a bad heart and Alzheimer's.
They said these things to me outside the courtroom where Tillory was about to be sentenced for two felonies – vandalism and assault with a firearm – utterly out of whack with the man they described.
There are conflicting versions of how Tillory, a sweet-natured construction worker, came to have his first serious run-in with the law at age 52.
But everyone agrees that it began with a quinceanera – and a dispute over the most common of neighborhood problems, loud music.
The celebration of Imelda Barragan's 15th birthday was held on a Saturday, the day before Mother's Day 2007, outside her family's two-bedroom apartment in Mountain View.
A carport had been emptied so a DJ could set up his equipment. The Latin music reverberated off its stuccoed walls and boomed into the neighborhood where, a short walk away, Tillory's 87-year-old mother was in bed trying to rest.
Tillory, an accomplished jazz musician, said the music had an underlying “base boom” similar to what's emitted by cars with outsize stereo systems, where you feel the music before you hear it.
“It pierced right into the house, so you couldn't enjoy your television or get any peace at all,” he told me.
About 7 p.m., Tillory walked over to complain, crossing an alley where street gangs tag even the abandoned couches.
He spoke to the DJ, who agreed to lower the volume. Tillory was told not to return, but to call the police if he thought a noise law was being violated.
Ignoring that advice, he returned a few hours later with what sounds to me like a do-it-yourself noise-busting kit: a bottle of water in his hand and a gun hidden in his pocket.
Somehow the water ended up splashing onto the DJ's computer. Tillory claims it was an accidental spill. The partygoers claim he was laughing as he poured out the water.
As you might imagine, this led to a ruckus.
Accounts differ. Tillory said he was jumped, knocked down and choked. Partygoers said he shoved a woman and was pushed down as a result.
Everyone agrees the ruckus ended once Tillory showed them the handgun. The piece was never fired, but the crowd backed off and Tillory took off.
I later asked Tillory why he brought a gun. In my neighborhood, he said, I often carry a gun for protection.
I also asked him why he hadn't just called the police. Force of habit, he said, from growing up in a neighborhood where calling the police on anyone had severe repercussions.
When police did arrive, they believed the Barragans' account of a crazy neighbor disrupting the party and brandishing a gun, not Tillory's account of an accidental spill and a weapon drawn in self-defense.
It didn't help Tillory's case that he was not especially cooperative, or that paramedics had to treat a young child in shock.
The jury that heard the case believed the Barragans, too. Wednesday Tillory was back before Superior Court Judge Bradford L. Andrews for sentencing.
The sentencing guidelines called for seven years. The prosecution argued for one. And the Probation Department, like Tillory's attorney, recommended probation.
Tillory's older brother was there, as were a dozen friends and neighbors. Before the hearing, they formed a prayer circle in the hallway. I was there, too, curious to hear the arguments and see how the scales of justice would balance.
I kept a score card.
In his favor: A half-century of clean living; an ill mother who depends on him; dozens of letters attesting to his character; a consensus that this incident was an aberration; a long history in the community.
Not in his favor: It was a gun crime, for heaven's sake; he shows no remorse – zero; he blames police for ignoring the real crime (the assault on him) and his public defender for being inept; he says things hinting at a vigilante complex.
Hard to know: Has the judge ever had to deal with a really loud neighbor?
Judge Andrews, while sounding perplexed by Tillory's behavior, placed him on probation and ordered him to pay restitution to the Barragans.
After a month in jail, Tillory went home. That's where I found him Friday, still remorseless and convinced he was the victim of a travesty of justice.
“I just wanted them to turn the music down,” he told me. “In this age of modern equipment, there has to be some restrictions. This is not stereo equipment. This is a band and public-address equipment.”
I also stopped by to see Imelda Barragan, the girl whose quinceanera was ruined.
Imelda is a high school sophomore and the oldest of four sisters. She said her parents spent about $3,000 on her party, including $600 for a dress she hardly wore.
“It was a good party,” she said sweetly, “until he came.”
She said her family believes Tillory belongs in jail, but that she's gotten over her heartbreak. She's looking forward to her youngest sister's baptism.
Will they have a big party?
“We haven't decided that yet,” she said.
Gerry Braun:
(619) 542-4563; gerry.braun@uniontrib.com
