Transcript
Sarah Reed (0:02)
Hey, it's Sarah. Juror number 11 from the sequestered podcast. Here's exciting news. Dateline NBC has just released a new episode titled the pin at apartment 210. In this episode, DATELINE correspondent Blaine Alexander explores the investigation, the trial, and the key moments that define the search for justice in the murder of Jasmine Pace. If you've been listening to Sequestered, you know how personal this case became for me. I had the opportunity to briefly share about my experience as a juror in this episode, and I feel incredibly honored to be a part of something that helps amplify Jasmine's story on a national level. This episode isn't about the trial or the jurors. It's about Jasmine, her voice, her family, and the lasting impact of what happened. Now streaming on Peacock. You can watch this episode of Dateline tonight or anytime you want, so check it out and help us continue to honor Jasmine Pace's memory. Go to peacocktv.com to start your free trial. Before we begin, please be advised that this episode contains graphic descriptions of violence as presented during the trial. Please take care while listening. It's still Monday, January 20, 2025, day eight of the trial. But now things feel different. The alternate jurors had already been selected and asked to leave the courtroom, exiled to their own alternate jury room until further notice. Four people who had been part of our group, people we had eaten with, shared rides with, walked the depths of the earth with, people who had laughed with us, side with us, and silently held the weight of this case with us for eight days. Suddenly, they were gone. Dismissed. And it all happened so fast. The rest of us, those whose numbers weren't called, just sat there, watching them leave. It was a gut punch, like a family suddenly being split apart. I remember feeling an ache in my stomach because those alternates weren't just observers. They were just as invested as the rest of us. They had listened to the same testimony, seen the same evidence, and developed their own opinions. But now the 16 of us were down to 12, 12 people who would carry the full weight of this next decision. Judge Patterson didn't leave us much time to process. He continued right away, reading through our final instructions, explaining the legal framework we'd have to follow, the rules we'd need to abide by. As we deliberated, it felt surreal. Everything we'd heard, everything we'd seen was now left for us to make sense of. And for the first time since this trial began, we were going to be allowed to speak freely. We were allowed to form opinions out loud. Allowed to share our thoughts, our doubts, and our convictions. It was a big moment, and I kept thinking about Jasmine. Her texts, her voice, her fear. And I wondered if the rest of the jurors were thinking about her, too. Then the courtroom stood, and one by one, each of us walked across the hall into the jury room. It was time to deliberate on a verdict. But it felt like so much more than that now. It felt like stepping into a place where all the noise and chaos of the trial faded away, where everything came down to 12 people sitting around a table confronting the truth and trying to decide whether justice could be found in the wreckage of something so profoundly wrong. We were about to find out if any of us were truly ready for what came next. This is Sequestered A Juror's perspective on the Murder Trial. For Jasmine Pace, I'm Sarah, juror number 11. Each episode, I'll take you inside the courtroom, behind the scenes, and into the weighty moments of this trial as we honor Jasmine's life and navigate the complexities of seeking justice. Let's begin. This is episode nine, the verdict and sentencing. It was 4:12pm when the jury room door closed behind us, just before the bailiff shut it. We were instructed not to begin our discussions until all 12 members were seated and present. Once we were together, we were to select a four person and begin our deliberations. Upon arriving at a unanimous decision, each juror would sign the official verdict statement, and the foreperson was instructed to flip on a light switch on the wall, which would illuminate a light in the hallway, alerting the bailiff that the jury had reached their verdict. Court was adjourned. While the jury was out, everyone shuffled out for the evening, I would imagine likely anticipating the long haul. Inside the jury room, we were truly on our own. For the first time, the room felt emptier than before. With four fewer people to fill the space, it was startling how much of a difference that made. Without them, the room seemed bigger, quieter. We shuffled around like strangers waiting for a bus, each of us taking turns using the restroom, which, oddly, was the only truly private space any of us had the entire week. A chance to relieve ourselves, yes, but it was also a chance to turn off the noise and take a few honest breaths, if only for a couple of minutes. I lingered a bit longer than necessary this time, my hands pressed against the countertop, breathing slow, trying to quiet my nerves. The restroom break stretched on eight, maybe 10 minutes. Meanwhile, the four empty alternate chairs were rolled away from the large conference table and into the hallway. As if we needed more room to breathe. When we were all finally seated, there was a heaviness to it. The first thing we had to do was choose a four person someone to speak on behalf of the group. When the verdict was ready, it quickly came down to me and one other juror. We both hesitated, dancing around the weight of the responsibility. No one wanted to be the voice that would echo into the courtroom, delivering words that would shatter lives. Eventually, juror number 15 conceded, and the printed copy of the official charges that Judge Patterson had read from was slid across the table to him. I was okay with this move. Relieved, honestly. It meant I didn't have to risk fumbling such weighty and important words in front of the court and the two famil who were anxiously awaiting very different results. But it didn't take away from the weight I felt sitting at that table. All of these details, all of the evidence, all of the testimony, every tax dollar spent bringing a sequestered jury to Chattanooga, the local expenses, the entire effort, it all came down to one question. Not if Jason Chen killed Jasmine Pace. We already knew he did. His own attorney admitted to. On day one of the trial, we didn't even have to deliberate on whether he abused a corpse that was also admitted to. So this whole thing practically came down to one word. Premeditation. Remember, there were six possible verdicts related to Jasmine's death, ranging from first degree premeditated murder to criminally negligent homicide. And there was a second separate charge of abuse of a corpse. For. For each charge, we had to reach a unanimous decision, starting with the first charge of first degree premeditated murder. If we couldn't unanimously agree on premeditated murder, then we were to move onto the next charge down, and so on, until a consensus was found. The foreman started with a show of hands. Who thinks Jason Chen is guilty of first degree premeditated murder. One by one, we went around the table. All but two hands went up. Those who hesitated were given a chance to speak, and the deliberations began. The obvious topic was premeditation, and we needed to be certain we understood what it meant. So what is premeditation? It's a word most people hear and immediately think of extensive, methodical planning, like something out of a movie where the killer plots every detail out well in advance. But what I came to learn during this trial is that, at least in Tennessee, premeditation doesn't have to include an extensive, drawn out plan. Legally, it means an act done after the exercise of reflection and judgment. And that can happen in an instant. All it requires is for someone to make a conscious decision to kill and have a moment, no matter how brief, to reflect on that decision before acting on it. Jason Chen didn't have to plan Jasmine's murder for days, hours or even minutes. He just had to make the decision, however quickly, and then act on it. Remember the prosecution's explanation of this with the yellow stoplight analogy in his closing statement? During his statement, D.A. moyle pulled up a clip from the Arctic footage of Jason in his 2018 gray Toyota Corolla. Jason is seen waiting to turn right at the corner of Tremont and Fraser. The timestamp was 6:13pm and the suitcase containing Jasmine Pace's body was already in the trunk of his car. Jason is in the turning lane as the traffic light above him flight flips from green to yellow. Traffic slows and a final car slips through at the last moment, just before the light turns red. Moyle pauses the video and explains the split second decision that driver just made. We've all been there. We've all calculated the cost of tapping the brake or hitting the gas in that moment. A completely rational decision that really doesn't take long at all. It was a huge revelation, one that reframed how I understood the word premeditation. Back in the jury room, I recalled this analogy, if even in an effort to help explain it to myself. There was a brief discussion before the group agreed to put it to another vote. And mere minutes after our deliberations had begun, the 12 of us had already unanimously agreed on the ultimate charge. The next vote, for the charge of abuse of a corpse, operated similarly and resulted in another unanimous vote. We were done. Now what? It felt quick. I remember saying something to the group like they're gonna say, the jury deliberated for X amount of minutes. We've gotta be sure. Is there anything else we should discuss? But what else was there? With this likely being my only opportunity to peruse? I pulled the box of evidence towards me and immediately picked up the large stack of 250 pages of printed paper containing the text messages between Jasmine and Jason. I wasn't looking for something new. I just needed to be sure to see her voice again and to see for myself that this relationship wasn't lopsided. It was like searching for something solid to hold on to, some final piece of certainty in this cavernous void of finality. The bailiff had only brought in this one box of evidence. It contained printed photos, digital reports, all of the flash drives and a laptop in case we needed to review any footage or photo evidence. We could also request to see any of the physical evidence that was still piled high in front of the judge's bench if we needed to. But we didn't need to see any of that again. The state had done a meticulous job of providing the evidence and proving their case. We were certain. The foreman flipped on the light switch and a few moments later the bailiff knocked on the door. It couldn't have been more than 30 minutes that had gone by. He poked his head in, a little confused and asked if we meant to turn on the light switch. We did. Had we already come to a decision? We had. Good morning.
