Inside the apartment: New documents confirm that Texas A&M student Brianna Aguilera returned home drunk, three girls were still in the apartment with her after 12:30 a.m., and minutes later, she fell from the 17th-floor balcony, an incident that has now sparked widespread public suspicion. But the balcony had no DNA, her mother’s theory was correct…. The words leap off the freshly unsealed court filings like a scream in the night, turning what Austin PD tried to file away as a tragic suicide into a powder keg of doubt. On December 8, 2025—just days after the 19-year-old’s tear-streaked funeral in Laredo—the Travis County District Attorney’s office released 47 pages of redacted APD reports, witness statements, and forensic logs at the insistence of attorney Tony Buzbee. What they revealed wasn’t closure; it was chaos. A blurry timeline of booze-fueled blackouts, a borrowed phone’s frantic final call, and a balcony as sterile as a crime scene wipe-down. Stephanie Rodriguez, Brianna’s unyielding mother, has pored over every line, her voice memo bombshell from last week now echoing louder: This wasn’t a solo leap into despair. It was a fall with witnesses who weren’t watching—and evidence that’s vanished into thin air.

To grasp the gut-wrench, rewind to that fateful Friday, November 28, 2025. The air in Austin crackled with rivalry fever: Texas A&M Aggies versus Texas Longhorns, a clash that draws 100,000 screaming souls to Darrell K Royal-Texas-Memorial Stadium. Brianna, a 5’2″ firecracker from Laredo with dreams of biomedical engineering and med school, wasn’t there for the gridiron glory. The sophomore, known on campus for her volunteer shifts at the student health center and her playlist of Selena anthems, had driven three hours solo to crash a tailgate with loose ties to her sorority circle. “She was living her best life—texts all bubbly about ‘Gig ’em vibes,’” Stephanie recalls in the filings, clutching a printout of Brianna’s last Snapchat: a selfie in her Aggie hoodie, mid-laugh, timestamped 4:17 p.m. at the Austin Rugby Club lot.

The docs paint the descent in stark, sequential strokes. By 4:30 p.m., Brianna’s in the thick of it—ponchos against a drizzle, lukewarm beers passed hand-to-hand, chants drowning out the thump of a portable speaker. Toxicology later clocked her BAC at 0.18 by midnight—three times the legal limit, enough to blur edges but not erase intent. Around 9:45 p.m., things sour. Witnesses—two UT frat bros and a sorority pledge—describe Brianna “slurring, stumbling into bushes,” her phone tumbling into the underbrush during a heated FaceTime with her Laredo boyfriend, Alex Rivera. “He was ripping into her—’You’re too drunk, who’s there?’—screaming about trust,” one statement reads, redacted names replaced by “Witness A.” Security hustles her out at 10:02 p.m., no citations, just a stern “Call an Uber, kid.” Her purse, keys, and jacket? Miraculously “found” later in those same woods by K-9 units—prompting Buzbee’s filing to quip, “Conveniently abandoned, or carefully placed?”

Staggering back to civilization, Brianna hitches a ride—docs confirm a Lyft drop-off at 21 Rio Apartments, the glossy 18-story student hive at 2101 Rio Grande, blocks from UT’s chaos. It’s 11:13 p.m. when she buzzes Unit 1704, a fifth-floor walk-up rented by Mia Hargrove, a 20-year-old psych major and casual acquaintance from a freshman mixer. The apartment’s a typical crash pad: IKEA futons, fairy lights strung haphazardly, a balcony overlooking Zilker Park’s distant glow. Inside: Mia, her roommate Lena Vasquez (19, undecided major), and visiting pal Sofia Chen (21, nursing student)—the “three girls” now etched in infamy. The group, per their synced statements, had been “pre-gaming light” since 8 p.m., but Brianna’s arrival flips the script. “She was wasted—giggling, spilling rosé, ranting about her BF,” Mia’s account notes. They order DoorDash tacos around 11:45 p.m.; security cams catch the delivery guy at the lobby, but no footage of the floor—APD’s first oversight, as elevators skip straight to 17 without stopping lower.

Post-midnight, the docs diverge into discrepancy. The girls claim a mass exodus: “Most bounced by 12:15 a.m., heading to an afterparty,” Lena writes, estimating 10-12 total partygoers whittled to four—Brianna included. But phone pings tell a stickier tale. Brianna, phoneless, borrows Sofia’s Samsung at 12:28 a.m. for that infamous one-minute call to Alex. The full transcript, appended to the filings, chills: “Babe, I’m sorry… the girls are cool, but he’s freaking me out… Wait, someone’s at the door? No, false alarm… I love you, gotta go.” It cuts at 12:29 a.m. Two minutes later—12:31 a.m.—a passerby, 24-year-old barista Javier Ruiz, hears “a whoosh, then impact” below the balcony. He dials 911 at 12:32: “Girl down, 17th floor, Rio Apartments—oh God, she’s not moving.” Paramedics swarm by 12:47 a.m.; Brianna’s pronounced at 12:56, body splayed on dew-kissed grass, Aggie ring twisted on her finger, no note, no shoe—one sneaker later found 20 feet away, as if kicked free mid-air.

The three girls? Their 911 comes late—12:14 a.m., a full 17 minutes pre-fall, bizarrely reporting Brianna “missing” despite her just being there. “We dozed off watching TikToks; woke up, balcony door ajar, her gone,” Sofia’s statement hedges. APD’s initial canvas: No interviews that night—just bedside chats at Brackenridge Hospital, where the trio was “hysterical but cooperative.” No search of 1704 until Sunday morning, yielding zilch: empty Solo cups, a half-eaten taco, but no phone (Brianna’s was still “lost”). The balcony? Here’s the gut-punch vindicating Stephanie’s theory: Forensic report, page 32, stark: “No recoverable DNA, fingerprints, or trace evidence on railing, floor, or sliding door. Surface wiped consistent with recent cleaning; no blood spatter or disturbance.” At 44 inches high—taller than Brianna’s 5’2″ frame—climbing it sober would be a stretch; drunk? Near impossible without a boost or shove. “You don’t just topple over,” Buzbee thundered at a December 8 presser outside the DA’s office. “And poof—no DNA? That’s not accident; that’s anomaly.”

Stephanie’s “theory”—that fateful voice memo edit—ignites the filings like a flare. Last week, she leaked the full 22-second raw: “Mom… I’m sorry… [gasp] He’s coming after me—please, help! The door’s open, I—” Cut off by what sounds like scuffling. APD’s report? Cropped to “I’m sorry, Mom… love you.” Buzbee’s team subpoenaed the original; it’s there, unedited, buried in evidence logs. “They heard the fear, chose the fit,” Stephanie told FOX 7 Austin, eyes blazing. Her suspicions snowball: The girls’ alibis fracture—Mia’s IG Story at 12:20 a.m. shows four heads in frame, not three; Lena’s Snapchat geopin confirms she was “in the apt” till 12:40. And Alex? His Laredo alibi holds—timestamped Uber Eats at 12:35—but texts unearthed via warrant scream red flags: October 15: “If you go out without me again, you’ll regret it.” November 27: “Watch your back at the game, mi reina.”

Public suspicion? It’s a tsunami. #JusticeForBrianna surges to 2.8 million X mentions by December 9, fueled by Aggie alums and true-crime pods. A Change.org petition for Texas Rangers oversight hits 150K signatures, decrying APD’s “rush to suicide” amid a deleted note from November 25 (“Can’t do this anymore—sorry Mom, Dad, Alex”) and October self-harm confessions to friends. But skeptics shred it: “Note’s real, but context? Boyfriend drama, not balcony blues.” Vigils swell—December 7 at Kyle Field saw 500 maroon-clad mourners, candles flickering like fallen stars. TMZ drops aerials of 21 Rio: pristine balconies, no “disturbance” visible. CrimeOnline op-eds blast: “Incompetence or cover? Buzbee smells both.”

APD’s stonewall cracks. Chief Lisa Davis’s December 4 confab—”No criminality, suicide supported”—now rings hollow against the docs. Detective Robert Marshall, lead, faces ethics probes for the “12-hour delay” in notifying kin. The three girls? Subpoenaed, they’ve lawyered up—Hargrove’s rep leaks: “Traumatized innocents, not suspects.” But whispers: One fled to Dallas post-funeral, dodging interviews. Ruiz, the passerby, adds fuel: “Heard arguing inside before the thud—female voices, then silence.”

For the Aguilera clan—Javier, stoic border agent; siblings Mia (16) and Carlos (22)—grief morphs to grit. Funeral masses December 8-9 at Hillside Funerals: open casket, Brianna in her white confirmation dress, Aggie pin gleaming. Stephanie’s eulogy: “She fought for truth; now we fight for hers.” Buzbee, eyeing a wrongful death suit against the complex (faulty locks? Lax security?), vows: “Rangers in by week’s end. This reopens everything.”

As Christmas looms—lights mocking the void—Brianna’s story isn’t sealed; it’s seething. New docs don’t confirm murder, but they demolish doubt: Drunk return, lingering witnesses, a DNA desert on that deadly ledge. Mom’s theory? Not wild—vindicated. In Laredo’s murals and Austin’s shadows, one plea lingers: “He’s coming after me.” Who was “he”? And why’s the balcony so clean? The fall’s over; the fight’s just beginning. Justice, for Brianna, isn’t a note—it’s a roar.