The shocking murder of model Juliana Redding

Juliana Moren Reading was found brutally murdered. I can tell you in 18 years of prosecuting cases, I’ve never had this much DNA.

Juliana Moren Reading was born on October 25th, 1986, on Picasso’s birthday. Her mother, Patricia Reading, said she knew from that very first day she had given birth to something special—a masterpiece. She grew up in Tucson, Arizona, in a close, devout Catholic family. Her parents, Patricia and Greg, who worked as a pharmacist, raised Juliana alongside her younger brother Patrick in a home full of structure, warmth, and high expectations. From early on, Juliana always stood out. I mean, she’s very pretty; people noticed her as soon as she turned up. She had that kind of presence. At daycare, boys actually squabbled over who got to play with her. Making friends was simple for her; it’s like she barely had to try. She loved her dolls, adored the other kids, and even as a young girl, you could tell she knew exactly where she was heading. She used to collect business cards, carrying them around in her great-grandfather Scotty’s black leather briefcase, proudly telling anyone who would listen that she was going to be a businesswoman one day. It’s kind of sweet to picture. She already saw a future for herself. Her grandmother would sometimes take her to executive board meetings, and somehow Juliana fit right in. She would sit quietly, completely at ease in rooms full of adults who barely noticed kids. That confidence, it was always there.

At South Point Catholic High School in Tucson, she stayed just as active. She played golf for four years and in her senior year, the team ranked first in the state. She also ran track and field, played soccer, joined the recycling club, served on student council, and performed in the drama club. It’s a lot when you think about it. She seemed to want to experience everything. Her school adviser, Sister Helen Ralph, said she simply had a love of life that naturally spread to others. In 2005, she was selected as a Tucson Symphony debutante. It reflected who she was becoming: poised, confident, comfortable being seen. But those polished details don’t tell the whole story. According to her friend Genevieve Stewart, who knew her at Santa Monica College, Juliana moved through the world like someone who believed there was space for her in it—a kind of quiet confidence. After graduating high school in 2005, she moved to California. She enrolled at Santa Monica College, studying communications. At the same time, she signed with a national modeling agency and began working part-time, first as a hostess, then as a waitress. Things started to pick up. She was landing modeling jobs, product shoots, music videos, earning around $3,000 per job on average. That is definitely something for a young girl her age starting out. She had her own one-bedroom apartment on Centinela Avenue, close to the beach. She was building something for herself. By 18, she had already earned her first film credit, a small role in an independent 2005 film called “Kathy T” about college students and graffiti culture. It wasn’t huge, but it was a start, and there was a sense that more was coming.

Then, in early 2007, something changed. While working at a restaurant in Santa Monica, Juliana met Dr. Munir Uwaydah, a Lebanese-American physician who ran a large medical business across Southern California. He offered her a job as a medical assistant. The pay was good, really good—enough for her to afford a Range Rover. For a time, their relationship went beyond business. She moved into his home in Beverly Hills. He gave her gifts, treated her generously, and somewhere along the way, their relationship became romantic. But not everyone was comfortable with it. When her father, Greg Reading, found out that Uwaydah was married with children, he was direct. He told his daughter to leave. He believed the man was dangerous. It’s hard not to pause there for a second, because moments like that often matter more than they seem at the time. Juliana listened. She ended the relationship. She moved back into her apartment in Santa Monica, went back to school, and continued working. From the outside, it looked like she was moving forward, putting it behind her. But there was one detail that couldn’t be undone: she had introduced her father to Uwaydah, and that single connection would slowly begin to unravel everything.

Santa Monica, California. The evening of Saturday, March 15th, 2008. Juliana’s bungalow on Centinela Avenue was just on a quiet residential street. It looked safe: bars on the windows, a front door that could only be opened with a key. No obvious way in or out without one. Former prosecutor Alan Jackson described it as the last place a young woman would ever think she was being watched. But that night, someone was already inside. Police believe the killer entered just before 10:00 p.m. What happened next wasn’t quick, and it wasn’t merciful. It was a fight. The struggle moved through the apartment—furniture pushed out of place, objects broken, every surface quietly recording what had happened. Juliana fought back with everything she had. Her head was slammed against the floor with enough force to leave deep injuries. Her throat was crushed. She didn’t go quietly, not at all. Later, investigators found her DNA under her own fingernails; she had been clawing at her neck, trying to pull her attacker’s hands away. It’s a desperate, instinctive reaction, something people do when they’re being strangled, when they’re still trying to survive. It’s honestly heartbreaking to picture. She was fighting for her life in her own home.

Just the night before, everything had felt normal. Juliana had spent time with friends, she worked a shift, then she went home. That evening, her boyfriend, a surfer named John Gilmore, called her. He told him she was fine. He mentioned going out for beers with friends. She said, “Okay.” And they hung up. That was the last time anyone spoke to her. At 9:53 p.m., a neighbor reported hearing screams, loud movement, furniture being dragged or knocked over, and then silence. When investigators later recovered Juliana’s phone, they found something chilling: someone had tried to call 911, but the call never went through. It was cut off before it could connect. You can’t help but wonder, how close was she to getting help? Her body wasn’t found until the next day, March 16th. Her mother, Patricia, had been trying to reach her with no response. After days of silence, she contacted the Santa Monica Police Department. Officers were sent to the bungalow on Centinela Avenue. When they arrived, something already felt wrong. The front door was unlocked, and the moment they opened it, they were hit with the strong smell of natural gas. It filled the apartment. A large decorative candle flickered on the coffee table. The entire place had been turned into a bomb. It didn’t explode. The building was old; it has this sort of vent stuff for airflow, so gas didn’t build up the way it should have. Later, police would say that if conditions had been even slightly different, the entire structure could have been destroyed, along with every piece of evidence inside, everything that could explain what happened.

But maybe missing context. Expert witnesses walked the jury through the DNA findings. They explained how it was collected, how it matched. They spoke about the injuries, about strangulation, about what had been found on Juliana’s neck. The prosecution also introduced financial records, payments made to Park, and described what they believed was a pattern of behavior. Still, the burden of proof remained. On June 4th, 2013, the jury, six men and six women, returned with their decision: not guilty of first-degree murder, not guilty of second-degree murder. Park broke down in tears, but the courtroom didn’t stay quiet. Voices rose from the gallery. People shouted, others said, “She knows she did it.” Some crying. The emotion in the room spilled over. For Juliana’s family, it was something else entirely. They walked out of that courtroom without a conviction, without clear answers, without the kind of justice they had been waiting for. And honestly, it’s hard not to feel the weight of that. Even some defense experts, according to later reports, were surprised by the outcome, which leaves a question that still troubles many: if all that evidence wasn’t enough, then what would have been?

No one has ever been convicted of Juliana’s murder. Dr. Munir Uwaydah remained out of reach for years. In 2015, reports suggested he had been arrested in Germany, but even then, his exact situation wasn’t clear. Around that same time, Kelly Soo Park was arrested again, this time on fraud charges tied to a massive medical insurance scheme allegedly connected to Uwaydah’s practice in Southern California. The numbers were staggering—about $150 million, 15 people indicted. Park’s bail was set at $18.5 million. But none of that changed what had already happened in Juliana’s case. That door had closed the moment the jury said not guilty. Double jeopardy meant she could not be tried again for the same crime, no matter what came later. That part was final. Uwaydah’s own career eventually unraveled. In 2010, the Medical Board of California placed him on probation for allowing a physician’s assistant to perform surgeries without supervision. By 2013, his medical license was cancelled. Whatever he had built, it didn’t last. But it also didn’t bring Juliana back.

Her family laid her to rest on March 28th, 2008, at St. Odilia’s Church in Tucson. She was buried in the city where she grew up, back home surrounded by the people who loved her most. And that’s where her story, in many ways, was forced to stop. Over time, her case became something more than just one investigation. In forensic and legal circles, it’s often discussed as an example of the limits of DNA evidence, because the science worked: it identified someone, it placed them at the scene, it told a story. But it wasn’t enough to secure a conviction. And that gap between what the evidence shows and what a jury believes beyond reasonable doubt, that’s where this case still lives. To this day, the Santa Monica Police Department continues to ask anyone with information to come forward. The case file still exists. The evidence is still there. Somewhere, a DNA profile sits in a database tied to her name. It was enough to point to someone, but not enough to hold them accountable. And that’s the part that stays with you, because when everything is laid out, when all the evidence is there, you expect an ending that makes sense. In this case, it never really came.