“When I named my nephew, I never imagined I would one day be asking our community to help bring justice to his name. Averill’s life was worth the truth then, and it is worth the truth today.”
A Public Letter for Averill Jeree LeMon (Mans)
There is a connection that only comes from naming a child.
When my sister, Sonya LeMon, entrusted me with naming her son, I chose the names Averill Jeree. Long before he took his first steps, before he ever put on a football helmet, before he became a father himself, I spoke his name into existence. From that day forward, every time someone called his name, a small piece of my heart answered too. That connection never leaves you.
To the world, he became Averill Jeree LeMon (Mans). To our family, he was simply our big teddy bear. He was a big man with an even bigger heart. His smile could light up a room and make you want to give him anything he asked for. He loved people and people naturally loved him back.
When I think of Averill, I don’t first remember December 11, 2008. I remember my parents, Lee and Penny Brewer, and their kitchen. I can still see Averill pulling up a chair between the refrigerator and the counter where a little television sat while my mother fried pork chops. His favorite was always a pork chop sandwich with Miracle Whip. If I close my eyes, I can still hear him say, ‘Hi Aunt Fonda.’ There are some voices time never erases.
Football wasn’t simply a game to Averill. It was part of who he was. He proudly played for Olivet College, dreamed big, wrote rap music, and became an amazing father.
If there was one relationship that defined Averill, it was the one he shared with his father, Ricky Mans. Ricky never missed a football game. Neither did my parents, Lee and Penny Brewer. Whether it was a Friday night high school game or a college game at Olivet, whether the temperatures were below freezing or snowflakes covered the field, they were there. The weather never determined their commitment to Averill. Their love showed up every single time.
But Averill’s greatest cheering section didn’t stop in the stands.
His brothers, Tray, Leroy, and William, along with my daughter, Amanda, shared a bond with Averill that words can hardly describe. Family was everything to us.
If you saw one of them, chances are you saw the other four.
They grew up together.
They laughed together.
They celebrated together.
They dreamed together.
They stood beside one another through life’s joys and its hardships.
Their relationship wasn’t built around holidays or special occasions. It was woven into everyday life. They were cousins by blood, but brothers and Amanda like a sister by heart. They looked out for one another, encouraged one another, and loved one another with the kind of loyalty every family hopes for.
That kind of love doesn’t disappear when someone is taken from you. It simply learns how to live alongside grief.
To this day, they carry Averill with them. His absence is felt in every family gathering, every shared memory, every story retold around the dinner table. His chair may be empty, but his place in this family never will be.
Long before the crowds filled the stands, Ricky could be found in my parents’ backyard throwing footballs with Averill and his brother. Those weren’t just games. They were life lessons in discipline, perseverance, responsibility, and fatherhood. Watching Ricky and Averill together was watching unconditional love. Watching my parents cheer from the sidelines was witnessing grandparents who believed their grandson could accomplish anything he set his mind to.
Our entire Brewer and Mans families looked forward to Averill’s future. We knew he had a great football career ahead and believed he would make his mark as a rap artist. More importantly, we knew he would become an extraordinary man because of his heart.
Then everything changed. On December 11, 2008, someone made a decision that forever changed our family. Nearly eighteen years later, Averill’s murder remains unsolved.
People often think cold cases simply grow cold. They don’t. Families don’t stop loving. Birthdays still come. Holidays still arrive. An aunt still longs to hear one more ‘Hi Aunt Fonda.’ My sister, Sonya LeMon, and Ricky Mans both left this world without knowing who took their son’s life. I truly believe Ricky died carrying a broken heart.
I am a Christian. I believe in forgiveness. Forgiveness is not the absence of accountability. I pray for the person responsible because the truth can be freeing. Confession cannot undo the past, but it can finally give one family the answers they have prayed for.
Averill was never just another homicide. He was a son, a father, a football player, a musician, a nephew, a cousin, a friend, and our gentle giant.
I gave my nephew his name, but he gave that name its meaning. When people hear the name Averill Jeree, I don’t want them to think first about an unsolved murder. I want them to remember a devoted father, a gifted athlete, a dreamer, a musician, and a man who loved deeply.
His life deserved more chapters than he was given.
If you know what happened on December 11, 2008, I pray you find the courage to tell the truth. Do it for Averill. Do it for his children. Do it for his parents. Do it because truth never expires.
I named him Averill Jeree. Today, I am asking our community to help restore honor to that name by helping us finally find the truth. Do it for Averill. Do it for his children. Do it for his parents, who left this world without the answers they deserved. Do it for his brothers—Tray, Leroy, and William. Do it for his cousin Amanda, who loved him like a brother. Do it for every member of the Brewer and Mans families who still carry this loss every single day. Do it because truth never expires, and neither does love.
With enduring love for my nephew,
Fonda Brewer
Edit: The President & Publisher, Rina RiRi Risper was at Averill’s funeral. She started The Lansing Stop the Violence page on Facebook in 2012.
