Leeann Nicolais Helps Pass Parole Reforms After Grandson’s Death

Colorado —Leeann Nicolais didn’t just want to remember her grandson. She wanted to make sure the system that failed him couldn’t fail someone else.

Last week, on Zel’s birthday, she broke out a bag of Oreo Double Stuf cookies. It was a small, specific tribute to the boy who lived in her home, who loved practical jokes, and who rebuilt mechanical things just to see how they worked. But the cookies were also a celebration. Earlier that year, reforms to the state parole system were passed and signed by the governor — reforms Leeann helped bring about by telling her story.

The question is whether these changes will actually keep dangerous offenders off the streets, or if they’re just another layer of bureaucracy. The answer, at least for now, lies in the details of how parole reviews are conducted.

Zel Nicolais died on Nov. 3, 2024, outside a Circle K across from the Auraria Campus. He wasn’t starting a fight. He saw Deangelo Luarks arguing heatedly with a woman and stepped in, standing just outside arm’s reach to make sure she was safe. Luarks, who had a lengthy violent criminal history, shot Zel in the chest from less than 10 feet away.

The critical failure wasn’t that Luarks was out; it was that he shouldn’t have been.

"Through a series of parole review errors, he had been freed despite the danger he posed," Nicolais wrote.

This wasn’t an isolated incident. An investigative series by 9News reporter Chris Vanderveen exposed a "stunning and deadly failure" in the law enforcement system. Multiple families lost loved ones because the parole review process was broken. Leeann Nicolais, who worked as an office manager at a law firm where I had interned, became a central figure in this narrative. She was a tall, wiry chain-smoker with a hard outward veneer that hid a heart of gold. She cared for her co-workers, loved her dog, and talked constantly about her family.

But Zel was the center of her life.

I met Leeann when I was a first-year law student. We went over minor infractions together, watching Zel navigate trouble with a little difficulty and a lot of help from his grandmother. He learned to take responsibility and stand up for others, just as she taught him. That same sense of duty led him to the Circle K.

The reforms signed just before Zel’s birthday aim to catch these errors before they become tragedies. But as locals know, a law on the books doesn’t always mean justice on the ground. The timing matters. The governor signed the bill just before the anniversary of Zel’s death, a symbolic gesture that underscores the urgency Leeann and others felt.

Leeann called me when Vanderveen first contacted her. She knew I had relationships with reporters across the state, including Vanderveen. She didn’t just want to be a victim in a news story; she wanted to be part of the solution.

"The victims were not limited to Zel and Leeann," Nicolais noted. "Through a yearslong investigative series... many families have lost loved ones due to the broken parole review system."

The reforms are a step forward, but they are not a panacea. The system is complex, and human error persists. Yet, for Leeann, the passage of the law was a way to honor Zel’s memory. It was a way to ensure that the "mischievous" boy who tore apart mechanical things to understand them would have a fighting chance against a system that sometimes fails to understand the danger it releases.

As Nicolais puts it, the goal was never just to punish Luarks, who had the history to warrant it, but to fix the mechanism that let him slip through.

"Leeann helped bring about those reforms by telling her story," Nicolais said. "She wanted to celebrate reforms to the state parole system passed earlier this year and signed by the governor just before her grandson’s birthday."

The cookies were sweet. The victory was hard-won. But the work isn’t done. The reforms are in place, but the next few years will show whether they hold up under the weight of Colorado’s parole population. For now, though, Leeann has her cookies, and the community has its law.

"It did not take long to figure out that her hard outward veneer hid a heart of gold," Nicolais reflected. "She cared for her co-workers, loved her dog and regularly talked about her family. And her grandson, Zel, was the center of her life."

That center is now protected by a system that finally, after years of failure, seems to be listening.