The ride was quick. The elevator stopped at the second floor. Taylor watched the man’s pudgy ass waddle off the elevator. Should have taken the stairs, buddy.
She got off at the fifth floor. Following a black and white diamond patterned corridor, she stopped in front of Room 502. She didn’t hesitate. She rapped three times, almost amused that it seemed like a secret knock. The door opened immediately by the foreman of the jury, and she was ushered into the room.
Twelve members of the grand jury were already seated at the table. Taylor recognized the faces. She’d sat in front of them just a few weeks before. She had testified on her own behalf, explaining the shooting of Detective David Martin as self defense. Thankfully, the grand jury had agreed with her assessment and did not indict her. Now, they had to decide the rest of the case, the one Taylor had blown wide open.
She took her seat at the head of the table. The thirteenth juror, the foreman, a sweet gentleman with a thick Southern accent and black glasses, held the chair for her. She thought he looked a bit like the Colonel from the fried chicken chain. When she was seated, he took the chair to her left and cleared his throat.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you all know Lieutenant Jackson. Lieutenant, could you state your name and occupation for the record, please?”
Her voice cracked when she answered. “Certainly. My name is Taylor Jackson, Lieutenant, Criminal Investigations Division, Homicide Unit. Badge number 4746. Let me apologize up front for my voice. I’ve caught the Tennessee Crud. I’ll try not to sneeze on you.” That drew a few smiles and laughs from the room. Taylor relaxed. It was better to work with an audience that was at ease.
“Thank you, honey,” the Colonel replied, his courtly Southern demeanor overshadowing his professionalism. He addressed the room. “We’re here today to gather information relating to the possible criminal activity of Ray Alvarez, Tom Westin and Nelson Sanders, all employed by the Nashville Metro Police Department, working in the vice squad, and David Martin, of the Homicide Unit.” The contempt in his voice was apparent. Handing down indictments of officers of the law was not taken lightly.
He continued. “Now, we’ve read a summary of the case. Lieutenant Jackson, we understand that you were called in to investigate a suspicious death, a young girl named Tamika Jones. And the investigation led you to uncover information that implicated four fellow members of the Metro Police—David Martin, now deceased, Ray Alvarez, Tom Westin and Nelson Sanders. These men were complicit in a black market scheme that was ultimately profitable for them. Am I correct in this summary?"
Taylor nodded.
The Colonel smiled and leaned back in his chair. The business end was over. It was time to hear Taylor’s version of events. “Now then, let’s discuss Tamika Jones. Could you go over it for us, please?”
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, no 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 mystery book club gathering.
Taylor cleared her throat and took her notebook out of her pocket. She didn’t need to open it. “Of course, 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 thirty percent of all the murders in Nashville in a given year.