“Detective Martin offered to cut me in on the deal. Dr. Murray was producing and selling the drug methamphetamine in the back room of his offices. He would do an abortion for a cut rate as long as the woman provided him with a certain quantity of pseudoephedrine. As ephedrine, one of the main ingredients in meth, is a controlled substance and difficult to procure, meth cooks can produce ephedrine by processing large quantities of pseudoephedrine. It seems that once the laws on selling pseudoephedrine over the counter in Tennessee changed, when they put it back in the pharmacies where it couldn’t be shoplifted, the meth makers were having a hard time producing the quantities to meet their demand. They needed a legitimate way to get their hands on the pseudoephedrine. Detective Martin was working with the three previously mentioned vice squad detectives—Ray Alvarez, Tom Westin and Nelson Sanders.
“According to Detective Martin, each man received a monthly ‘reward’ for funneling women and product to Dr. Murray. They had put the word out on the street that he was doing abortions cheap, and not looking at the ID’s too closely as long as you brought the drugs with you. All the vice guys had to do was tell the pimps and strippers that Dr. Murray would take care of them.
“In compensation for my efforts, I would receive approximately $15,000 a month. It was less that the others because I wasn’t going to be doing any of the work. I was simply to keep my mouth shut and not pursue the matter.
“The money was large, and the detectives were getting rich. As many of you know, meth production and distribution is one of the biggest problems facing law enforcement in Tennessee. There always seems to be money in illegal drugs.”
Taylor shifted in her chair and crossed her legs.
“Unfortunately, we have not recovered Dr. Murray’s files.”
The foreman consulted the sheets of paper in front of him. “That would be because allegedly, David Martin killed Dr. Murray, then burned all the files. Is that correct, Lieutenant?”
“That is correct, sir. Allegedly, Detective Martin made a visit to Dr. Murray the same evening he came to see me.”
“Which is the night you shot and killed the detective, isn’t that right, Lieutenant?” A small woman with gray hair and piercing eyes glared at Taylor. Word on the street, meaning lawyers’ gossip, was there had been a holdout in Taylor’s case. Someone on the grand jury had actually voted to indict Taylor for homicide in the death of David Martin. But the grand jury had issued a “No True Bill” in her case. It only took twelve of the thirteen jurors to issue a “True Bill”—a yes to indict, or “No True Bill”—a no to indict. The holdout had been effectively silenced in that round. Taylor wondered if this was the woman who voted to indict her, and felt an unexpected fury take hold. She bit the inside of her cheek and forced herself to be civil.
“Yes, ma’am, you are correct.” Taylor did not continue. No sense in answering questions that weren’t asked.
“That’s enough, Inez,” the foreman shot at her. The woman shuffled some papers angrily. “Now, Lieutenant Jackson, is there anything else we need to know?”
“No, sir. I believe that is all I can give you. I recused myself from the investigation after I…um, upon Detective Martin’s death. That is all the information I have for the grand jury at this time.”
There was throat clearing and paper shuffling. A few members stood and stretched. They were finished with her. Taylor stood as well. She smiled at the foreman. He gave her a wink. Nodding to the rest of the room, she left them to their next witness. She had done all she could. Maybe now she could finally put all of this behind her.
Fifty-Three
Jill didn’t know if she was awake or dreaming. It looked like there was light coming through the window of her room, but she couldn’t be sure. Couldn’t be sure of anything. She could vaguely understand she was being drugged, and that a man she thought she knew kept coming into the room, whispering crazy stories in her ear while he held her. She felt his voice inside her head constantly, saw glimmers of his face, hovering, concerned. Was she sick? In a hospital? She had a momentary vision of her parents: her mother crying, her father pacing. Were they worried about her? Was the baby okay?
Her thoughts drifted away again, and she felt herself slip into the darkness. The hallucinations were becoming more complex each time the drugs were injected into her arm. Jill felt herself walking on clouds, skimming over the earth, flying through the sky. She felt the wind in her hair and it brought her joy. She knew she had died, that she was flying to heaven. She was excited, thrilled, but a little frightened. What would God be like?