Taylor surveyed the room. Here were thirteen very powerful people. They had the mission of deciding who and what got prosecuted in Nashville’s criminal courts. They met in secret, were basically a self-governing body. No lawyers or district attorneys were allowed. It was just the person who had been subpoenaed to appear, and the thirteen jurors, like a lopsided cabal. Yet for all the seriousness of their job, the spirit in the room was congenial, friendly even. This particular meeting held the futures of three men in the balance, but the atmosphere was reminiscent of a book club gathering.
Taylor cleared her throat and took her notebook out of her pocket. She didn’t need to open it. “Of course, Mr. Foreman. On October second of this year, I was called to the home of Clementine Hamilton, 453-A Moore Street, Nashville, Tennessee. It was coming on ten o’clock in the evening. When I entered the premises, I found the woman’s twelve-year-old granddaughter, Tamika Jones, on the kitchen floor. She was lying on her right side, curled in the fetal position. There was a pool of blood under her body.”
Taylor quickly lost herself in her narrative. She couldn’t have imagined how investigating Tamika Jones’s death would change her life forever.
*
Moore Street was one of Nashville’s nastiest projects. Many of the city’s homicides happened there. Some were fueled by drugs, most others by desperation. Whatever the cause, the effect was tangible—the Moore Street projects accounted for nearly 30 percent of all the murders in Nashville in a given year.
In the gloaming dusk, Taylor exited her vehicle to the usual catcalls. In these projects, men and women of varied ages roamed the streets aimlessly at all hours of the day and night, talking, watching, being. The typical crowd had gathered when they heard the news. She ignored the rude gestures, the propositions, and threats. She walked through the manufactured similitude of the run-down buildings to the complainant’s front door. The screen was cut. The wooden door stood open. Taylor could hear the sound of crying and smell the blood. Though there were other police around as well as EMTs, she instinctively put her hand on her gun.
A pale-faced EMT saw her looking through the screen and came over to the door. He opened it silently. His motions were sluggish. He looked as though he might be sick. She gave him a look of concern, then continued into the cramped house. The walls were paneled with dark walnut, lending the depressed air of the room a morose tone. Attempts had been made to keep the walls clean, but it seemed halfhearted. Lace curtains, yellowed with cigarette smoke, hung limply over the window. Taylor could see a bullet hole in one pane. The carpet was orange shag, about a million years old, and it didn’t quite reach the four corners of the room. The home was squalid. The fetid stink of despair hung from every corner like a blanket.
She stepped through to the kitchen. She immediately realized why the home was such a mess—the woman sitting at the tiny, unstable kitchen table was blind. Her eyes were milky white, made more opaque by the contrast with her blue-black skin. She was old, very, very old. Taylor bit back a curse. The woman should be in a home with people to take care of her, not living on her own.
There were tears leaking ever so slowly from the woman’s blind eyes. For a moment, it seemed she and Taylor were alone, just the two of them in the putrid little kitchen, and she looked right into Taylor’s soul. Taylor got a chill down her spine. Then the old woman’s head turned and Taylor spotted the body of the girl. All other thoughts left her. She stepped carefully, avoiding the pooling blood.
The girl’s skin was lighter than her grandmother’s, and unmarred by the ravages of age. Her hair was braided into tiny rows, each held in place with alternating blue and white beads. Though dispatch had said the girl was twelve, she looked older. Taylor guessed that came from living hard.
She threw off all the cloaking of compassion and became a cop. She turned to the EMT leaning against the counter.
“What’s the story here?”
“Tamika Jones, twelve years old. Seems she had an abortion today. Came by to check on her grandmother, collapsed on the floor. I’m assuming something went wrong with the procedure, and she bled out.”
Taylor gave him a sharp look. Assuming wasn’t allowed.
“You know for a fact she had an abortion?”
A voice, deep and rich, drifted toward Taylor’s ears.
“She told me she was. That’s how I know. Honeychile told me she was riddin’ herself of the child. I told her it was a sin. She didn’t care. Never listened to old me anyways.”
Taylor turned and saw Tamika’s grandmother looking her straight in the eye. Taylor shuddered, and the woman laughed. “Don’t take sight to see, girl. I know you’re right there in front of me. Honeychile’s been acting stupid for a while now, whoring around, taking drugs. I told her it would come to no good. She don’t listen to her gran, though. I told her that man would kill her, one way or the other.” The woman turned away, and Taylor stood, frozen, as if Medusa had glared out of the woman’s sightless eyes.
“Ma’am, what man are you talking about? Does she have a boyfriend?”
“Haw,” the woman spit out. “Boyfriend. Girl, child like that, she got herself a pimp. A sugar daddy. He whores her out, gives her the drugs.”