Keyana Dixon agreed to meet on her day off. It was a warm yet cloudy and rainy Monday morning – Dixon’s favorite type of weather. The rain recharges her, she said. The conditions seemed ideal for the heavy conversation ahead: discussing what her life has been like since January 2023, when five former Memphis police officers beat her younger brother, Tyré Nichols, to death.
The conversation started light. Then, she opened up for nearly two hours.
Through her words, Dixon shared the last two years of her life: losing a close family member in such a public way, facing her brother’s killers in court, moving from California to Memphis and navigating expectations placed on her and her family to grieve in a certain way.
“A Sister’s Love and Grief” is a three-part series in Dixon’s voice that aims to broaden how we view safety and justice in the face of publicized horror and state-sanctioned violence.
Note: This piece has been edited and condensed for clarity and length.
I’ve never watched the video. I tried to sneak and watch it when nobody was around, and I threw up. I couldn’t even see still images. I’m a visual person, so it gave me nightmares. So, when I went to court, I covered my eyes, covered my ears.
To hear them laugh, high-five and mock my brother – calling him a “bitch-ass nigga crying for his mama” – it was too much. Knowing that they just tortured him, that they were able to just stand there and have a disregard for his life – that wasn’t just violence; it was hate.
The fact that Demetrius Haley took a picture and sent it to people as if my brother’s lifeless body was a trophy: The first thing that came to my mind was how they used to take pictures when they hung a man.
It made me cry, and then it made me think about the self-hate of another Black man. What really hurts is that they were Black officers, first and foremost.
Seeing them in court and all their personalities, I started reading each of them. I called them the Monstars, like from “Space Jam.” Each one had their own role. I know it’s a crazy comparison.
Like Justin Smith, he was new. He was a follower. I believe he’s played it back in his mind so many times of what he should have done. Desmond Mills is big as a box, but when he got on the stand, he sounded like a baby. He said, “I froze. I didn’t know he died until I saw it on the news.” He started crying. His voice was soft, like a third grader’s.
Tadarrius Bean, to me, is just a follower. He didn’t stand up as a man. He was super young. He was new. He didn’t have a voice yet. I think the longer he would’ve worked on the police force, the more he probably would’ve pulled back and said something – or he would’ve become as corrupt and gone along with it. But I don’t think he slept well that night.
Then, there was Emmitt Martin III, the one who’s fighting against his own identity as a man in this world. He started all this shit: lying about my brother reaching for his gun, lying about my brother coming at him. Just selfish. He was looking to make a name for himself. When he got on the stand, he immediately put his head down. He could never look at us in our face. He was very adamant in his testimony about how he was wrong. That also lets me know that he’s trying to make peace with whoever he prays to.
Demetrius Haley – he’s a psychopath. I believe that with everything in me. I think he’s that kind of dude that doesn’t keep up well with himself, but when he puts on that uniform, he’s somebody. That’s when he feels powerful. He smiled at me in court every chance he got. Every time I looked up, he was smiling. At first, I thought I was tripping, but no. He was smiling. That’s sick. That’s some real psycho shit.
None of them acted with any humanity that night. That made me mad, because I realized everybody was hiding behind something: the badge, the benefits, their excuses. That’s what I saw in that courtroom: not justice.
When I did finally see some parts of the footage, I saw my brother’s body give out. His body language, it was like he knew. It was like his spirit said that’s what it is. To know that he felt that breaks my heart. In the beginning, I thought, it’s on video, so this is cut and dry. But years later, we’re still in court, and they’re all out.
Now, I know there’s no such thing as closure. My brother can’t come back. That’s the root.
Brittany Brown is the public safety reporter for MLK50: Justice Through Journalism. Email her at brittany.brown@mlk50.com
This story is brought to you by MLK50: Justice Through Journalism, a nonprofit newsroom focused on poverty, power and policy in Memphis. Support independent journalism by making a tax-deductible donation today. MLK50 is also supported by these generous donors.