They draped themselves over the couches, played beer pong on the dining table, scrounged for food in the kitchen cupboards and gathered in packs out front, tossing empty cans onto the lawn. “It’s my parents’ house.”īefore long there were 60 kids in the house. “I don’t want no one smoking inside,” said Tyler. His eyes were large and white, his pupils expanded, and he kept rubbing his hands together, nervously clenching his fists. He seemed anxious, or at least as anxious as you can be while on Ecstasy. Tyler answered the door wearing a long black T-shirt, black Dickies and black Nike Air Force high-top sneakers. So they figured they might as well check out the Hadley party. Mike and his friends had already spent three hours killing time at the mall in Stuart, 20 minutes down the coast, and another hour at McDonald’s. There was no access to the beach, no downtown, and no place for teenagers to hang out at night other than a giant arcade called Superplay USA, which advertises itself as a State-of-the-Art Family Playground. It had half a dozen golf courses, twice as many assisted-living homes, seven funeral homes, two bingo halls and a shuffleboard club. The city, 40 miles north of West Palm Beach, was a tomb, designed for the soon-to-be-entombed. There never was anything going on in Port St. But it was a warm summer evening in July and there was absolutely nothing else going on in Port St. His friends - potheads, juvenile delinquents, pill poppers - were not the type of kids Mike liked to associate with. At school he was quiet, approaching nonverbal, though occasionally prone to sudden, nonsensical outbursts in class. Tyler was distinctive looking, tall and skinny, nearly cadaverous at six foot one and 160 pounds. Mike, a popular, athletic junior, knew the host only by sight. The party was just getting started when Mike Young arrived with 10 or so of his friends around 11:30 p.m. No one was convinced by this, but at 8:15 p.m., Tyler posted another message:Īshley Haze messaged: “WHAO what what if your parents come home” Tyler posted a message on his Facebook wall: Tyler Hadley: tryin to have a party at my cribĪntonio Ramirez: Your parents ain’t home?Īt 1:15 p.m. on Saturday, July 16, 2011, Hadley received a Facebook message from his friend Antonio Ramirez.Īntonio Ramirez: Chillen what you doin tonight? When his friends asked whether the party was still on, Tyler replied, “I’m working on it.” They assumed that meant it was off. He’d never thrown a party before, and it was impossible to believe that his parents, who had been increasingly strict with him lately, would give their consent. Tyler had been telling his friends all week that he was going to have a party, but nobody believed him. Where exactly Tyler’s parents had traveled, or how far, no one seemed to know. Lucie High, and, most crucially, his parents were out of town. Word was that his name was Tyler Hadley, he attended Port St. You could tell it was going to be a huge party because almost nobody had heard of the kid who was throwing it.
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