Episode 9 Transcript
The Verdict and Sentencing

Sequestered: A Juror’s Perspective on the Murder Trial of Jasmine Pace 

Episode 9: The Verdict and Sentencing

​

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, sighed 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 Sara, Juror #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.

​

It was 4:12 PM 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 foreperson and begin our deliberations.

• Upon reaching a unanimous decision, each juror would sign the official verdict statement.

• The foreperson would 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, 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 breaks stretched on—eight, maybe ten 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 foreperson, 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 families 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 that 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.

​

There was also a second, separate charge of abuse of a corpse.

​

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 on to 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.

​

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 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.

​

The Yellow Stoplight Analogy

During his statement, DA 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 Frazier. The timestamp was 6:13 PM, 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 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, even if just 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 got to 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. To see for myself that this relationship wasn't lopsided.

​

It was like searching for something solid to hold onto, 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.

​

“Breaking news: A guilty verdict reached in the Jason Chen murder trial.

This news coming in overnight from Chattanooga, according to WTBC, Chen is convicted of first-degree premeditated murder and abuse of a corpse in the death of his girlfriend, 22-year-old Jasmine Pace.

​

He was on trial for killing her and stuffing her body in a suitcase back in November of 2022.

A jury took just 45 minutes of deliberation to reach that verdict. Those in the courtroom say there were audible sighs of relief from Pace's family once it was read.

​

The judge says Chen will be sentenced this morning at 10 o'clock.”

​

At 4:56 PM, less than one hour after we were excused to deliberate, we were already making our way back into the courtroom.

​

44 minutes. That’s all it took. From start to finish, it took us 44 minutes to deliberate and decide on the charges we believed were suitable for Jason Chen’s actions.

​

The Verdict

“With respect to Count One of Present 1315228, we the jury find the defendant Jason Chen guilty of first-degree premeditated murder.”

​

An emotional verdict.

Judge Patterson: “Everyone needs to maintain order in the courtroom. This is your individual verdict? Please, so indicate by raising your right hand.”

​

Jurors raise their hands.

​

“With respect to Count Two of Present 315228, we the jury find the defendant Jason Chen guilty of abuse of a corpse.”

​

Judge Patterson: “This is your individual verdict? Please, so indicate by raising your right hand.”

Jurors raise their hands.

​

We, the jury, had found Jason Chen guilty of first-degree premeditated murder and abuse of a corpse.

​

When the verdict was read, you could hear Jasmine’s family exhale. There were audible gasps, maybe even a few whispered thank yous, and the kind of tears that come from holding your breath far too long.

​

Judge Patterson gently hushed the room. It felt like a final moment, a heavy one. And even the word guilty echoed through that room.

​

I knew this would never really be over for them. Nothing we decided could bring Jasmine back. Nothing could undo what had been done.

​

Once the verdict was read, Judge Patterson responded with words I didn't fully understand at the time.

​

He said: “As the 13th juror, I agree with this verdict.”

​

I remember feeling reassured, like he was in agreement with our unanimous decision. It felt like validation.

​

It wasn’t until later that I understood what he meant. The judge, acting as a 13th juror, is responsible for determining whether the evidence supports the jury’s verdict. It’s a safeguard, a final layer of confirmation, if you will.

​

And in that moment, it was as if he was telling us, “You did your job. You got it right.”

​

But our role as jurors wasn’t done yet.

​

Because of the charge we had decided on, we still had one more decision to make—how long Jason Chen would remain behind bars.

​

The Sentencing Phase

Judge Patterson announced to the courtroom that sentencing would take place the following day at 10 AM and court was dismissed for the evening.

​

We walked out of that courthouse carrying the weight of what we had just done. It was quiet between us. No one said much. We still weren’t really allowed to say much, but we knew we’d be back in less than 24 hours.

​

The judge had made that much clear.

​

After such a heavy day, we made the much less weighty decision of opting to eat dinner at the hotel’s restaurant rather than going out. None of us had the energy to be anywhere but close to our rooms.

​

But when our van pulled into the hotel parking lot, we were stalled by the sight of our four alternates. They were packing their luggage and climbing into the other van, heading home to their families, their own beds, their normal lives.

​

We would have just one more night in our hotel rooms, because our role carried just one more responsibility—to decide if Jason Chen would ever be eligible for parole.

​

Now it's Tuesday, January 21, 2025—Day Eight of the Trial.

​

We returned to the courtroom one last time. Our suitcases already packed and ready for departure, but before we could head home, we had just one more heavy decision to make.

​

It was a strange, almost cruel juxtaposition to be preparing to go home, thinking of familiar comforts—our own beds, our families—only after deciding how long Jason Chen would spend in his new home.

​

For us, the end was in sight, but for him, today was the day he would learn his own fate.

There was something chilling about the finality of it all, knowing that the same doors we would walk through to reclaim our freedom would close behind him, sealing him away from everything he once knew.

​

This wasn’t just the final day of his trial. It was the day his future would be decided.

​

Sentencing Day

At 10 AM, Judge Patterson began with a video connection to a translator, making sure everything was in place before we began.

​

By 10:26 AM, we learned that Jason Chen had chosen not to testify before his sentencing.

We weren’t in the courtroom during this exchange, but it felt significant. Up until that moment, Jason Chen had remained completely silent.

​

In fact, the only two words the jury ever heard him say were:

• “Not guilty.”

​

Two words spoken on the very first day of his trial, and then nothing.

​

We were now eight days into this trial, and this was his moment—his final chance to speak on his own behalf, to offer:

• Explanations

• Apologies

• Justification

Anything.

And he chose silence.

​

The Decision Not to Testify

Defense Attorney Joshua Weiss stood beside Jason Chen and walked him through a formal confirmation process.

​

I've learned that this is standard in criminal trials before a defendant waives their right to testify.

The court needs to be absolutely certain that the decision is being made:

• Knowingly

• Voluntarily

• Without pressure from anyone else

​

Weiss asked Jason a series of direct questions:

• Had he discussed this decision thoroughly?

• Did he understand the consequences?

• Was this entirely his choice?

​

Only after Jason clearly stated that he was making this choice of his own volition did the court move forward. Mr. Weiss confirmed Jason’s decision not to testify.

​

Joshua Weiss: “Whatever it is that your decision is, it is a personal decision that only you can make. Have you had enough time to consult with me and talk about whether or not to testify? Go over the benefits and detriments?”

Jason Chen: “Yes.”

Joshua Weiss: “Are you deciding not to testify on your own volition?”

Jason Chen: “Yes.”

Joshua Weiss: “And that’s your personal decision?”

Jason Chen: “Yes.”

That exchange might have sounded routine, but in reality, it carried tremendous weight.

With each “Yes”, Jason Chen was sealing his fate—choosing silence over explanation, and placing his future entirely in the hands of his attorneys and the evidence already presented.

From that moment forward, the jury would never hear from him directly.

• No justifications.

• No explanations.

• Only the defense that had been built on his behalf.

​

Something I found interesting—something I learned after the fact—was that technically, Jason Chen should have been seated in court that morning wearing his prison-issued attire.

He was, after all, a guilty man.

The jury was out of the courtroom during this exchange, but DA Wamp made a point of bringing it up to the judge that morning.

​

I hadn’t considered it at the time, especially since we weren’t even supposed to know he was in custody during the trial.

That’s why he wore professional attire throughout the trial—to present the appearance of a:

• Free, innocent man.

• It was all about perception.

• The suits, the neatly combed hair, the calm, calculated demeanor.

And of course, “innocent until proven guilty,” right?

But looking back, I can see why DA Wamp would have brought it up.

He wasn’t the same man standing trial for innocence or guilt anymore. That decision had already been made.

​

He was now a convicted murderer, and somehow, letting him maintain that polished, composed appearance felt like one last manipulation.

​

Back to the Jury Box

Alright, now back to our seats in the jury box and back to the gravity of what we were being asked to do.

​

Only this time, we weren’t deciding whether Jason was guilty. We had already done that.

Now we were being asked to decide how long he should stay behind bars.

The state was asking for the harshest sentence allowed under Tennessee law:

Life in prison without the possibility of parole.

​

And then the room shifted again as Jason Chen's mother, Shu Feng Chen, was called to the stand.

She spoke through a translator, painting a picture of her son as a:

• Good, quiet child.

• A student.

• A boy who waited late at night for his parents to return from their restaurant business.

She talked about how hard he worked in school and how he knew right from wrong. And then she broke down.

She began to sob. Her voice cracked. She looked each of us in the eyes and begged for the jury to give her son a chance to do what's right, to come home, to start over.

​

And in that moment, for the first time during the entire trial, we saw Jason Chen cry. His own mother’s pain finally moved something in him.

​

Translator:
“Was he a violent child?”

​

Shu Feng Chen:
“He never fights at school. Never fights with anyone. I taught him the law, and I told him that Mom doesn’t know English and cannot help him in many things. He said, ‘I will study hard, and I know right from wrong.’”

​

Over and over again, she pleaded for mercy, asking for parole, asking for a future. She even asked Jasmine’s family to somehow allow for that future.

​

But the weight of what had happened couldn’t be softened with apologies. It was hard to digest.

You really have to turn your emotions off and just allow for input.

​

Here’s a clip of Latricia Thomas from News Channel Nine:

“The defense attorney, Joshua Weiss, was asking Ms. Chen, ‘Do you have anything to say to the family of Jasmine Pace?’ And instead of addressing them, she kept addressing the jury, asking them to give Jason Chen the possibility of parole.

​

They switched translators. They actually called an aunt on the phone. And Ms. Chen gave basically the same answer when asked what she wanted to say to the Pace family. She did very shortly say, ‘I hope that the Pace family gives him another chance.’

​

But of course, in this situation, it's up to the jury to decide the sentence. So, what sentences could they decide here?

​

We know that Jason Chen was convicted yesterday of premeditated first-degree murder and abuse of a corpse. The state is seeking life in prison without parole.

​

But according to the judge’s instructions to the jury before these witness impact statements began, he said that their choices here are: Life in prison with parole or Life in prison without parole.

​

And he went through some of the things that they had to decide about if they were true or not to give him life in prison without parole. One of them being that the act was particularly heinous. They can also take into consideration any past criminal history he may have.

​

So, at some point today, the jury will go and deliberate on a sentence. And those are the two choices there.

​

Oh, and one thing also to mention—during his mother's testimony, this was the first visible emotion that we've seen from Jason Chen during this trial.

​

Now, it is difficult to see exactly what his face is showing, but this is our first observable sign that he’s showing emotion in the courtroom as he started crying and wiping his eyes as his mother was testifying, saying he is a good kid who made a mistake.

​

They said their life is difficult in the United States because they don’t speak English, and they run a restaurant, and Jason was at home a lot on his own while they were running that restaurant.

She asked the jury repeatedly to give him the possibility of parole after 51 years so he could have a second chance. So again, the first visible emotion we’ve seen on our live streaming from our crews in the courtroom during this trial.”

​

Reflecting on Shu Feng Chen’s Testimony

If I'm honest, this was one of the most difficult moments of the trial—watching Jason’s mom beg for her son’s life.

​

There was something so raw about it, so human. And there was this added layer of complexity that made it feel even heavier.

​

Jason’s parents are both Chinese immigrants and don’t speak English. This was the first time a translator had been provided for them—the first moment Shu Feng Chen could fully communicate her pain and desperation.

​

I’d seen her throughout the trial, sitting faithfully in the second row behind her son. I even remember seeing her on the first day of jury selection, sitting in the back row, just behind me.

​

I’ve seen her lovely and devastated face for weeks now, and I often wondered what this whole ordeal must have been like for her:

• To sit through an entire trial spoken in a language she didn’t understand.

• Watching as the evidence against her son was projected onto screens and laid out on the courtroom floor.

• Evidence she couldn’t fully grasp, though I’m sure she figured out what it was.

​

I wondered how much of the awful details she learned only after sitting through it all.

And now, looking into the faces of the strangers who deliberated on the fate of her son without ever truly knowing what was being said, I couldn’t help but feel sad for her.

For the way she must have felt so isolated

But no matter how much I wanted to make room for her pain, it couldn’t change what had been done to Jasmine.

​

And that conflict was hard to reconcile.

​

Then it was Jasmine’s family’s turn to speak.

After the deeply emotional, translated statements from Jason’s mother, came the victim impact statements.

​

Gabrielle’s Testimony

Jasmine’s older sister, Gabrielle, took the stand first.

Everyone calls her Gabby, and she carried the voice of someone who knew Jasmine inside and out—not just as a sister, but as someone who had survived unimaginable loss right alongside her.

Gabby reminded us that Jasmine had endured more heartache in her short life than most people do in a lifetime.

​

She spoke of:

• Loss after loss.

• Grief that stacked upon itself like weights Jasmine was somehow forced to carry.

Their brother lost in a tragic ATV accident.
A cousin taken by COVID.
Their other cousin claimed by another accident.
And just hours before her own murder, her beloved grandmother—a woman who had helped raise her, her best friend, her safe place—passed away suddenly after a long battle with cancer.

The grief was relentless, and yet Jasmine somehow kept going.

​

Gabby:
“Through all of the trauma that Jazzy had endured, she still had the most beautiful aura and soul. She never gave up on people, and she never gave up on herself. No matter how hurt or how busy, she always spent time on her family and friends because it was the most important thing to her. She had every reason to be bitter and cold-hearted, but she chose to perform kindness and love.”

​

Jasmine loved hard. She dreamed of being a mom one day—it was one of her deepest desires.

In the meantime, she was already a proud and devoted mom to her four cats. Gabby said they were her world, and she doted on them like children, spoiling them with affection, treats, and attention.

​

But Jasmine’s love extended far beyond her pets. Gabby painted a vivid picture of who her sister truly was:

• Someone with a joyful, mischievous spirit.

• Someone with an unbreakable bond with her family.

• A jokester, a best friend, the one who could make you laugh until your sides hurt.

• She was the kind of person who got a panda tattoo just because it made her smile, not because it was trendy or meaningful in some profound way, but simply because it brought her joy.

• ​

Jasmine kept two entire dresser drawers filled with candy.

• Not just because she loved sweets, though she definitely did, but because she loved to spoil her nieces and nephews.

• It was her way of bringing them happiness, of showing her love.

​

And then Gabby brought us to the casket, to the moment she had to say goodbye to her sister in a way no one should ever have to.

Her voice cracked as she described it—the anguish of looking down at Jasmine knowing she’d never hear her laugh again, never see her smile again.

And all I could think was how wrong it all felt.

How all of that love Jasmine had for her family, for her pets, for her life, had all been snatched away in the most brutal and senseless way.

​

Gabby:
“I’ll never forget standing at my sister’s casket and seeing how much wax they had to put up on her face and how much mascara was smudged underneath her eyes, and how her hair was stiff with wax.

​

I held my sister’s hand one last time, not even knowing that it was the hand that fixed her hair and her necklace again—not knowing that she had wounds there.

​

I’ll never forget the overbearing hurt that I felt when I found out what he had done to my sister, the overwhelming anger and disgust I felt that someone could do this and not have any remorse for what they had done.”

​

Gabby said their family has relived those final moments of Jasmine’s life for two years—over and over, the horror replaying like a broken record in their minds.

Every time they picture her terrified and alone, they imagine her:

• Fighting for her life.

• Struggling against the unthinkable.

• Calling out for help that would never come.

​

And the worst part? These moments aren’t just memories.

They’re nightmares her family wakes up to every single day.

• The unanswered questions.

• The haunting images that refuse to fade.

​

For them, Jasmine’s death isn’t just a tragedy—it’s a wound that keeps reopening, a wound that may never fully heal.

​

Gabby:
“The thought of was there something more I could have done constantly haunts me.

I love my sister dearly, and I demand she gets the justice that she deserves.”

​

Next, Jasmine’s cousin Jacqueline took the stand.

From the moment she walked up, everyone in the courtroom could see she was carrying something in her hands. She held an empty vase. She gripped it tightly as if the weight of what it symbolized was almost too much to bear.

​

Jacqueline set the clear vase on the corner of the witness stand closest to the jury box and pulled out a bag of blue and clear glass stones.

One at a time, she began dropping a glass stone into the vase until the bag was emptied.

When she spoke, her voice was steady but strained.

​

Each stone, she explained, represented a single stab wound—60 wounds.

The jar wasn’t just a prop. It was a testament, a visual representation of brutality.

It forced us to confront the reality of what had been done to Jasmine, not just through words or photographs, but through something tangible, something heavy, something real.

As Jacqueline spoke, the stones inside the jar shifted with the slightest movement.

The soft, unsettling sound of them bumping against each other in the glass jar seemed to echo through the silence in the room.

It was impossible to look away, impossible to forget.

​

Jacqueline:
“Sixty stones. Each one sharp. One to represent every stab wound found on my beautiful, innocent, 22-year-old cousin.

For two years and two months, I have thought of this very moment. The moment I would have the chance to confront the sub-human villain sitting among us.

His mere presence defiles this very court, and I am so sorry for everyone here that has had the unfortunate fate of having crossed paths with him.

Thank you to everyone that dedicated hours—time away from their families, blood, sweat, tears, and trauma—to ensure that whatever justice could be given to my family would be had.”

​

A Deeper Plea for Justice

Jacqueline’s voice didn’t waver. She looked at each of us in the eye and asked us to remember the autopsy photos.

But more than that, she asked us to go beyond the sterile, clinical images we’d been shown.

She wanted us to imagine something more personal, something more painful.

​

She asked us to replace Jasmine’s face with someone we loved:

• A daughter.

• A sister.

• A best friend.

Then, to picture them enduring the same violence and the same terror that Jasmine did.

To imagine the agony of losing them in such a brutal and senseless way.

Because only then, she said, could we begin to grasp the scope of their loss.

​

Who Jasmine Was

But Jacqueline didn’t stop there.

She didn’t just tell us about Jasmine’s death.

​

She wanted us to understand Jasmine’s life:

• Who she was.

• What she loved.

• The kindness she poured into the people around her.

She described Jasmine as a warm, generous soul, a girl who hugged with intention—not because it was polite, but because she meant it. Because connection mattered to her.

​

She was playful and kind, the kind of person who tattooed a sleepy panda on her wrist, as Gabby said, simply because it made her smile. Because she found joy in the little things.

​

She was thoughtful, too. The type of person who would go out of her way to bring happiness to someone she cared about.

​

Jacqueline told us about a Starbucks cup that Jasmine ordered for her online as soon as it was mentioned in a conversation.

​

A simple, thoughtful gift. The kind of gesture that seemed small but spoke volumes about Jasmine’s heart.

​

That Starbucks cup arrived the same day they were saying goodbye to their grandmother at the hospital.

​

As Jacqueline shared that detail, her voice cracked.

It was another piece of Jasmine’s kindness delivered far too late.

A reminder of how much had been lost.

​

Jacqueline:
“I can still picture how she greeted you. She would smile, arms outstretched to love you, and not because of etiquette or decorum.

​

It wasn’t the fake one-arm, ‘I’m gonna pat you on the back because I’m supposed to.’ It was genuine. She meant it.

​

The cliché ‘she lit up a room’ is fitting for her.

I often think of the last time I hugged her. She was crying, she was hurting, and she still thought of everyone around her and their well-being.

​

What a lot of you don’t know is, hours before Jasmine was murdered, we were all together saying goodbye to our beloved grandmother. It w

as not expected. She woke up not feeling well that day, went to the emergency room, and was dead by that evening.

​

We used to have a joke about who Granny’s favorite was. Jazzy always had the trump card. It was Granny and her restaurant after her.

To say we were all close is an understatement. She was the glue that held us all together. It was a devastating loss.”

​

Jacqueline described that day at the hospital, their last day with Jasmine’s beloved Granny.

Even in her own grief, Jasmine was still caring for others, still making sure everyone else was okay.

She was the kind of person who, even on one of the hardest days of her life, was still:

• Trying to keep family traditions alive.

• Still thinking of Thanksgiving.

• Still planning.

• Still hoping.

Even as her heart was breaking, she was reaching out, offering comfort, when she was the one who probably needed it the most.

​

The Silence

But then came the silence.

• The unanswered texts.

• The calls that went straight to voicemail.

And then she spoke of an hour and 12 minutes where no one knows what Jason Chen was doing.

That space, an agonizing gap in time, has haunted Jacqueline ever since.

The questions echo in her mind:

• What was happening to Jasmine during those 72 minutes?

• What thoughts went through her head?

• Was she afraid? Was she fighting? Was she already gone?

It’s that silence, that horrible, unrelenting silence, that keeps Jacqueline awake at night.

Because unanswered questions don’t just fade away. They grow louder. They fester.

And in that courtroom, as Jacqueline described those missing minutes, you could feel her desperation, her need for answers—answers that would never come.

​

Jacqueline:
“I texted her at 8:49, the morning after we lost Granny. I asked her if she was okay.

She responded, ‘I just need some time alone.’

After everything that happened, I have so many questions that torture my mind.

One of them is, What were you doing for the hour and 12 minutes before you pretended to be the girl you murdered and responded to her family’s concern for her?”

​

And still, somehow, Jacqueline found empathy for Chen’s mother.

She said she prays for her, acknowledged that his actions didn’t just destroy Jasmine’s family—they destroyed his own.

Jacqueline looked around at her family and said she hardly recognizes them.

Grief has changed their DNA. It’s woven itself into every future holiday celebration and milestone.

They’ve been given a life sentence, she said, and Jason Chen should have the same.

​

Jacqueline:
“We have a life sentence of pain due to Jason Chen’s actions.

We will never wake up and have a chance to put this behind us.

It will be with us every single day until we leave this earth.

It is embedded in our DNA.

He should have the same applied sentence we bear.

He should never be allowed to leave prison and start his life over or put this behind him.”

​

Next, in a moment that brought the courtroom to complete stillness, Jacqueline read from Jasmine’s journal. She read Jasmine’s words to her stepfather, her grief over the loss of her brother, Austin, and then an entry she wrote to her grandmother, the one who was battling cancer.

The words were raw, personal.

​

Finally, Jasmine’s father, Travis Pace, stepped forward.

He spoke of her childhood milestones, her gift for language, and her dreams of attending business school in Chicago.

​

But his voice broke when he mentioned something all of the family members had shared—Jasmine losing her 14-year-old brother when she was just 16.

A tragic ATV accident that shattered their world.

​

Travis:
“She had a 14-year-old brother, younger brother, and the type of person that Jasmine was—she heard about the wreck, or that her brother was hurt, and she was the first on the scene.

She laid in a grass field, holding her 14-year-old brother, and stayed with him through all the surgeries.

​

He didn’t make it, but she was the one in the room holding his hand.

The amount of courage that it takes to lay there with her brother is remarkable.”

​

Then Travis Pace spoke about the impact of Jasmine’s murder, how it rippled far beyond a single generation.

He described a wound that stretched across their entire family, one that would scar not only those who knew Jasmine, but those who would only ever hear stories of her.

The loss was permanent, and the damage was generational.

​

Travis:
“It’s not like Jasmine was the only person we lost.

We lost our children.

We lost our grandchildren.

The entire family tree has been cut down.

It will not just affect us for 50 years—for the next thousands of generations, we will no longer have that peace with our family.”

​

The courtroom went quiet as we took a short recess.

​

When the jury returned, Jason Chen’s father, Min Yang Chen, spoke briefly.

​

His words were quieter, simpler. Through a translator, he spoke to the Pace family:

​

Min Yang Chen:
“We understand your hurt, and we are so sorry for your loss.”

​

It was a gesture of remorse, and I understood why the defense made the call to do so. But it felt small against the weight of everything that had been said.

​

Judge Patterson’s Instructions

Judge Patterson then gave us our new jury instructions for sentencing.

The lawyers approached the bench and General Cody Wamp stepped to the podium for the last time.

​

Before she began, Judge Patterson provided two final pieces of information for the sentencing phase:

1. Jason Chen is a U.S. citizen.

2. He has no significant criminal history.

​

General Cody Wamp’s Closing Statement

General Cody Wamp:
“Jason’s decision... What do you think? Should he have the ability to get out of prison?

That is the question you now have to ask yourself.

We're not going to go back through the proof. You've heard it. You know it very, very well.

But I do want to talk to you for a second about life without the possibility of parole—in the legal system we refer to as LWOP.

​

The State of Tennessee is not always entitled to seek life without the possibility of parole. You've heard now that there have to be aggravating circumstances present for the state to even ask a jury to find life without the possibility of parole.

In this case, it's very simple.

​

Tennessee State law allows life without the possibility of parole if the murder was especially heinous, atrocious, or cruel in that it involved torture or serious physical abuse beyond that necessary to produce death.

​

And then it goes on to define those terms.

​

I hate that I even have to say this, but if he was going to kill her like he did, he could have done it in other ways.

​

He could have killed her in other ways where we would not be here for this sentencing hearing.

If he would have shot her and left her in his apartment, we wouldn't be here for life without the possibility of parole. It doesn’t qualify under this aggravating circumstance.

​

If he would have stabbed her once or twice and left her in his apartment, we wouldn't be here. It doesn’t qualify under this aggravating circumstance.

​

He chose not to do that. He chose repeatedly—the amount of stones that were in that glass vase—to stab and slice her.

​

And then he chose more physical abuse.

​

I think we can all agree that stuffing her in garbage bags in a suitcase is additional physical abuse on top of what was necessary to kill her.

​

The medical examiner said that she could have lived for minutes, that even the wound to the neck would not have instantly killed her.

That is heinous, atrocious, and beyond what was necessary to kill her. That is cruel. That is vile. The entire case is vile.

I feel terrible for Jason’s family. It is very sad to see his mom up there on that witness stand.

Shame on him.

​

He didn't just do this to Jasmine and her family. It is horrible to watch that he did it to his own family. I can’t even fathom what they must feel like.

​

But I want you to ask yourself something:

• Did you see or feel legitimate, genuine remorse for the Pace family?

• Does it make it better that he was privileged, that he had parents and a brother that cared about him, that he’s been a quote, ‘good kid’?

• He was a good child. No mental health conditions. No issues. He was a student.

• Does that make it better, or does that make it worse?

I think that makes it a lot worse, because there are kids in our communities that have hard lives, that struggle with drugs, with mental health issues, that grew up in bad homes, that had hard, hard lives.

That’s not him.

He took everything his family had given him, and he squandered it. He ruined the Pace family’s life.

That doesn’t make it better. It makes it worse.

​

All we are asking is that he never gets out of prison.

​

Jasmine Pace never got out of that suitcase until she was in a coffin in which her family members had to testify today that there had to be so much wax on her body she was unrecognizable.

That is heinous and atrocious and cruel. Period.

​

Just like yesterday, we ask that you go back there, talk about it, make the right decision, and make sure he never gets out of prison.

Thank you.”

​

The Final Deliberation

With that, court was recessed once again for deliberations.

But first, we ventured out as a group for lunch one final time.

We enjoyed the walk, the warmth of the sun on our faces, and the moment of normalcy after days of heaviness.

​

We’d been to this place before, Anchors on Broad Street. They already had our tables reserved for us.

​

Everyone ordered and shared one last meal together.

​

It was simple, sweet—a small gesture of closure for a group of strangers brought together by tragedy.

Jurors, deputies—a brief, fragile community bound by something none of us would ever forget.

​

With full bellies and a final task at hand, we made our way back to the courthouse, back into the jury room for one last deliberation. We took our customary bathroom break, and once everyone was seated, the foreman put it to a vote.

​

Just like the day before, a couple of jurors hesitated on the charge of life without the possibility of parole.

​

And just like the day before, I couldn’t confidently raise my hand—not yet.

I needed to be sure. I needed to speak, to discuss, to make sense of the weight of what we were about to decide.

The air in the room felt different this time—heavier, oddly, as if we all understood that this was the true end, that what we decided in these moments would reverberate for decades.

​

If Jason were given life with the possibility of parole, he would be 73 years old when his first opportunity for release would come.

That would be 51 years from now.

The idea of it stuck in my mind, circling over and over.

I remember speaking out loud, as much to the others as to myself:

“51 years... that’s more than an entire lifetime for Jasmine. It’s more than twice as long as she ever had on this earth.”

​

The room was quiet, listening, weighing, processing.

If we decided on parole, then 51 years from now, Jason Chen could walk free.

• He could breathe fresh air, rebuild his life, and make new memories.

• But Jasmine will still be gone.

• 51 years from now, her family will still be grieving her loss.

• Decades later, they don’t get a second chance.

​

I could feel the weight of those words settling over the room, and in that moment, something clicked for me.

​

This wasn’t about revenge. It was about justice—a justice that matched the gravity of what had been taken away.

And with that clarity, I felt that I could confidently raise my hand when it came time to vote again.

​

It didn’t take long, and the decision was made.

We spent a few more minutes in silence, letting it settle, making sure we were sure.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hasty.

But it was unanimous.

​

​

At 2:29 pm, Jason Chen was brought back into the courtroom, and three minutes later, our verdict was read.
“With respect to the sentence of the defendant Jason Chen on Count One of Presentment 315228,

We, the jury, do unanimously find the following statutory aggravating circumstances beyond a reasonable doubt:

That the murder was especially heinous, atrocious, or cruel, and that it involved torture or serious physical abuse beyond that necessary to produce death.

And we do unanimously agree that the defendant’s sentence shall be life imprisonment, without the possibility of parole."

​

Judge Patterson:
“I’m curious if this is your individual verdict. By raising your right hand, please indicate.”

Every single juror raised their right hand.

​

Judge Patterson:
“Jurors, this concludes your service.

It may seem like two years ago that we first met, but it was only two weeks ago.

As you can tell, this was a very important case for both sides of this community.

On behalf of everyone here in Hamilton County, please accept my sincere gratitude for the sacrifices you have made away from your life as part of this.”

​

There you have it. Jason Chen would spend the rest of his life in prison without the possibility of parole.

​

It didn’t feel victorious. It didn’t feel like a win, but it felt necessary.

​

We had done our part:

• We listened.

• We questioned.

• We deliberated.

• And now we had delivered our verdicts.

​

It felt like the right decision, but it didn’t feel like relief, not really.

As I walked out of the courthouse for the final time, the sun was still shining.

People were still walking their dogs, grabbing coffee, and going about their lives.

But for Jasmine’s family, for all of us who sat through those nine days, life was not returning to normal.

​

Justice had been served in the eyes of the law, but the story and the pain that the Pace and Bean families went through wasn’t over.

​

Next Time on Sequestered

The next time on Sequestered, we’ll look at what happened after the verdict.

​

I was interviewed by Latricia Thomas of News Channel Nine about the deliberations.

“For the first time, we’re hearing what went into their decision to convict him of premeditated first-degree murder and sentenced him to life in prison without the possibility of parole.”

And we catch up with General Cody Wamp and General Palm Moyle—now, two months after the trial.

​

Stick with us. I’ve got a lot more to share on this.

​

Thank you for listening to Sequestered: A Juror’s Perspective on the Murder Trial for Jasmine Pace.

Each episode brings us closer to understanding the trial, the people involved, and the weight of seeking justice.

​

If this story speaks to you, please follow, share, and continue the conversation with us.

Jasmine’s story deserves to be remembered.

​

This is a BP Production.

The show is written, edited, and produced by me, Sara Reid, with co-production by Andrea Kleid.

News clips featured in this episode were sourced from WTBC News Channel Nine, Local Three News Chattanooga, and the Law and Crime Network.

Music and sound design are curated to reflect the gravity and sensitivity of this story, with the intent to honor Jasmine, her family, and the community affected by her death.

​

For more information or to connect with us, visit SequesteredPod.com or follow us on Instagram at @SequesteredPod.

​

Thank you for listening.

​

Until next time, stay curious and stay safe.