Lost Boys

The assistant district attorney, Casey O'Brien, argued that dealers don't shoot their customers. And if Robert thought a dangerous dope fiend was after him, he would not have discarded his gun but kept it for protection. Judy said her boy knew right from wrong and would never, ever deliberately shoot someone; she said she feels bad for Higgins, prays for her and hopes she heals, but she maintains that her son not only did not know Higgins was a cop but couldn't see her through the truck's tinted windows. Since the bullet could not be removed from Higgins's spine without causing further damage, Judy said, there's no way that the district attorney's office can prove that it came from her son's gun.

But the casing found near Higgins matched the other shells Robert fired. And the prosecutor argued that Higgins didn't shoot herself. Robert had a gun with Packmire grips and laser sights; the assistant district attorney said Robert knew what he was doing. "He shot to kill her, not maim her," O'Brien said in closing. "He killed her life…he ruined her future."

Robert was sentenced to life in prison (concurrent to his 24 years) and fined $10,000.

Vonda Higgins was at a book signing at the Shrine of the Black Madonna when someone handed her a "What Happened to Reginald LaVergne?" flyer that said his brother was the one who shot her. "I took it, but I didn't read it," she says. She didn't know Robert had a brother, and the idea of police retaliation outrages her. "Everybody's concern was 'Let's pray, let's help Vonda,' " she says. "No one was thinking, 'Let's get him back.' "

After the shooting, Higgins received a congressional letter of recognition, HPD's medal of valor and was named officer of the year, to list a few of the awards filling two shelves in her immaculate living room. At first she couldn't feel anything below the neck; now she can move her arms and has faint feeling in her legs. Sitting in an electric wheelchair, she gestures with hands she can't move but which constantly ache from arthritis. She's cold all the time and spends most of her days visiting doctors; she had one operation that transferred tendons so she could move her left arm, and another that fused her left thumb, giving her a permanent grip. She plans to have the same surgery on her right hand, and after that she hopes to learn how to drive -- that's what she misses most, being in a car by herself. "I miss getting up and going," she says. "Now I have to rely on people to assist me with everything -- that's the hardest thing."

She used to live alone, but now she needs 24-hour care; either a nurse or her niece is with her at all times. Higgins recently graduated from Texas Southern University with a degree in administrational justice. She wants to start her master's degree after her next operation, and then maybe earn a Ph.D. She'd like to get certified and teach law enforcement to high school kids or criminal investigation at a junior college. She wishes she could have stayed on the force, but she says she wouldn't have wanted to sit behind a desk watching others go on undercover investigations without her. At the trial, she said she still hoped to someday do undercover stings again.

Higgins is the type of woman who doesn't complain and exudes a warm, happy aura. She says that after the trial, she stopped thinking about the shooting, blocked it from her mind -- when asked about it, she says she can't believe anyone's still interested in her story. She'd rather joke about the ambulance ride when they cut off her favorite pair of Victoria's Secret panties than relive the actual shooting.

While she was in the hospital, Higgins told the man she had dated seven years that if he wanted out, he could leave. "No," he said, "we'll get through this." But a year later she felt like he was doing things out of obligation and that it wasn't a real relationship anymore, so she ended it. He didn't stop her.

Chaison is her best friend -- they were close before, but the shooting bonded them. They talk two or three times a day, go out to dinner and movies, and laugh and joke together. It saddens Higgins that some people don't feel comfortable talking to her now that she's always sitting down. When other officers ask Chaison how she's doing, he tells them to call her (she talks with a headset). If they want to go with him to visit, he tells them to go on their own -- he doesn't share his time. They're both on the board of a nonprofit organization called My Sister's Keeper, a mentoring program for girls grades six through 12 to help raise their self-esteem, boost their confidence and make them stronger women.

"If Ralph would've been killed at the scene, I would've been so upset with myself," Higgins says. It's better that she took the bullet, she says, because she wouldn't have wanted to live without him. "Your life is second," she says. "Your partner is first."