No matter how many times they played the video, I always wanted to yell: The other way! Run the other way, Tyrone! I thought he might get away but never did. I still believed one of the five .40 caliber bullets wouldn’t land in his back, but one always did. Just one.

The forensic pathologist explained how the slug entered, how it ricocheted inside Tyrone Fields’ body and pierced his spine and lung, causing blood to enter his airway before exiting his throat. That’s why the bodycam footage showed him lying paralyzed on the sidewalk, blood trickling from his nostrils and neck, a crimson pool encircling his torso. The pathologist told us that entry wounds are circular because a flying bullet spins so fast it practically burns away the skin, while exit wounds look like tiny incisions, harmless slices where the slug comes out having done its worst.

Today I drove through West Asheville, not far from the crime scene. When I’m in that part of town, I sometimes think about turning right on Texas Avenue, to follow the path that Jamal Hill took in the silver Chevy Impala. Security camera footage showed the car pulling up to a parking lot, where Jamal gets out with a .40 caliber pistol in his hand. Tyrone appears on the screen, approaching some nearby cars, but stops when he sees someone in a hoodie heading his way. Maybe he realized it was Jamal or saw the glint of metal clutched at his side. He took off like lightning. No matter how many times they played the video, I never believed the bullet could catch him. There’s no sound in the recording, but I still heard the poppoppoppoppop, and wondered which shot formed the perfectly round entry wound, dropping Tyrone on the sidewalk behind Building 37 of the Vista Springs Apartment Complex.

During the trial, Judge Riggs gave clear instructions not to read the paper or talk to others about the case, not to go to the crime scene or play detective. I still hear his voice when I reach that intersection, and always turn left onto Texas Avenue. Nothing will change if I turn right. I’ll never get a clear look at Jamal’s face. The bloodstain that formed beneath Tyrone has probably washed away, but he’ll still be dead. I’ll still see his autopsy photo in my dreams and think from time to time about what kind of life he would have lived had he run the other way, had all five bullets missed, had one not ricocheted inside his body.

I picture Jamal in his cell and try to figure out how old he would be now, how many years until the possibility of parole. He turned 16 only a month before that day, the day he decided to turn right instead of left, to defend his sister’s honor with violent metal instead of fists. No matter how many times they played the video, I always believed Jamal might raise the gun at the last second and aim for the noonday sun.

– Isaac Rankin

Author’s Note: This piece is a meditation on serving as a juror in a first-degree murder trial. A young man may be in prison for the rest of his life as the result of a decision I made with 11 strangers, and another young man is dead. This piece is an attempt to process and make sense of this experience and the aftershock. It seems unfair to say that my life was changed by these events, especially when so many others were affected in such tragic ways. Still, I think about the trial and the people involved almost every day. I’ve learned that justice is ugly and beautiful and complicated all at once, and I hope that everyone affected by these events will find peace in the days, months, and years to come.