A Voice Silenced: The Tragic Death of Jonathan Joss and the Love He Died Protecting
Jonathan Joss, the voice behind John Redcorn from King of the Hill, and a familiar presence on screens in Parks and Recreation, Ray Donovan, and Tulsa King, was more than an actor.
He was a partner, a dreamer, a protector. On June 1, outside his San Antonio home, his life was violently cut short at 59—an act of brutality that has sparked grief, outrage, and calls for justice.
The man accused of taking his life is 56-year-old neighbor Sigfredo Ceja Alvarez, who now faces murder charges.
According to police, what began as a confrontation on the street ended with Alvarez allegedly drawing a gun and firing multiple rounds at Joss. When first responders arrived around 7 p.m., they found the actor lying on the roadside. He was declared dead at the scene.
But what happened that evening, according to Joss’s husband, Tristan Kern de Gonzales, was not a random dispute. It was a culmination—of fear, targeted hostility, and love tested in its rawest form.
“We weren’t armed. We weren’t threatening,” Kern de Gonzales wrote in a heartbreaking post on Facebook. “We were grieving. We were side by side. When the man pulled the gun, Jonathan pushed me out of the way. He took the bullets meant for both of us.”
The couple had just begun to build their life together—married on Valentine’s Day, searching for a trailer, dreaming about what came next. But behind closed doors, Kern de Gonzales says they were navigating something darker: repeated harassment from their neighbor. Verbal abuse, slurs, intimidation—all, he says, because they were gay.
“He screamed homophobic slurs,” Tristan wrote. “Then he lifted a gun from his lap—and shot.”
Though the San Antonio Police Department has acknowledged the incident is under active investigation, officials stated there is “currently no evidence” the shooting was motivated by Joss’s s*xual orientation.
Still, they added, the investigation remains open and evolving. If new evidence points to a hate crime, appropriate charges will be pursued.
For many, this lack of immediate recognition feels like a gut punch. The LGBTQ+ community, especially in Texas, knows too well how difficult it can be to prove hatred in a court of law—when it is lived so vividly outside of one.
What remains undeniable is the hole Joss’s death leaves behind. To audiences, he was a steady presence—his voice unmistakable, his roles always rich with warmth and depth. To friends and fans, he was genuine, talented, and deeply proud of his Native and LGBTQ+ identity.
To his husband, he was a hero.
“Jonathan saved my life,” Kern de Gonzales said. “He lived in love. He died in love. I will carry that forward.”
As the investigation continues and the legal process unfolds, those who knew Joss best are left to make sense of a loss that feels senseless. But in the wake of tragedy, something endures: the story of a man who gave everything to protect the one he loved. Not with a role or a line—but with the last act of his life.
Jonathan Joss may be gone, but his voice, his courage, and his legacy still echo.