Michael's Story

The summer evening that ended in gunfire and chaos began with video games and fast food.

It was guys' night out. Michael Dixon, 21, was the oldest. Patrick Greer, 17, and Stacey Dixon, 18, were with him. Although Patrick and Stacey were Michael's nephews, sons of older siblings, their relationship was more buddy-buddy than uncle-nephew. Also along for the ride was 11-year-old Joseph Hegwood, a neighbor of Patrick's.

Michael was driving that night. Three months earlier he had purchased a white 1993 Mustang GT, with a five liter engine and five speed transmission, not a muscle car, but it had enough zip to suit him. The interior was red with plaid cloth seats and hanging from the rear view mirror were the tassels from his high school and college graduation caps.

They left Patrick's residence at 814 Taylor St., about 8 p.m. on July 10, 1993. The foursome was joking around, having a good time. It had been several months since the uncle and nephews had been together because Stacey lived in Linden, a two-hour drive from Nashville.

First stop was the arcade at Fountain Square. They fed quarter tokens into an arcade's shoot-em-up machines, firing imaginary guns, rockets and bombs at animated bad guys, having a great time trying to earn the highest score.

After an hour, their supply of coins dwindling, the foursome moved on.

Michael drove around Nashville, stopping at the Pizza Hut at 2700 Gallatin Road so he could introduce his nephews to friends at the restaurant, where he worked part-time. His full-time job was at Lockheed Inc., where he had worked for eight months, but he worked the pizza job to boost his savings.

By 10 o'clock the four guys were buying burgers in the drive-thru at a McDonald's nearby.

Every tale of woe has a defining moment, where the autopsy of the ensuing tragedy makes it clear there were two choices: Take one course and all is safe; take another and all hell breaks loose.

If they had gone back to Patrick's to eat their burgers and fries, there would be no story to tell, but that was not the case.

Although the hour was late, Michael, Stacey and Patrick decided to visit Patrick's girlfriend, who was staying a few miles away at a house on Seymour Avenue. Joseph was just along for a ride with the big guys, so he didn't care.

As he maneuvered his car into traffic on Gallatin Road, Michael had no premonitions, no feeling that danger was about to strike. Although he did not know the exact location of the apartment they were going to visit, he was familiar with the area because he had delivered pizzas there. If it were unsafe, his boss at the restaurant would not have sent him there, he figured.

"You know which house?" Michael asked.

They knew the way, Stacey and Patrick said.

James Kenneth Pleasant hit the ground every time headlights came down the street.

"Down!" the 36-year-old commanded his 20-year-old nephew, Terrance Pleasant, as a car passed by the duplex at the corner of North 12th Street, and Seymour.

He had called the younger man, nicknamed "Poon," to his house that summer evening because James smelled trouble brewing and he wanted backup, just in case the opposition stacked the deck. The two men had stationed themselves on the front porch.

By the time the nephew arrived, James had been drinking from a bottle of Seagram's Seven for several hours and would continue drinking as the twilight waned. Later, there would be allegations that the older man also sniffed cocaine on at least one occasion that night.

In James' lap was a 9 millimeter Ruger P85, loaded with a clip of 115 grain, jacketed, hollow-point bullets. Nearby was an AK-47 with more than 100 rounds of ammo. Inside the house were three rifles: a Marlin 444 lever action, an Interstate Arms .386 semi-automatic and a Marlin 25, a bolt action .22 caliber. He was prepared for anything.

Pleasant had been in scrapes before. His rap sheet, although not lengthy, did include an assault charge several years back. He expected similar charges to come from an altercation earlier in the day when he pistol-whipped a teen-ager because the young man had allegedly raped Pleasant's daughter.

The man first tried to persuade the teen-ager's grandmother to take action against her grandson, but days went by and nothing happened. Then, by accident, Pleasant came face-to-face with his daughter's alleged rapist.

He would later tell police that he didn't mean to hurt the young man, but his emotions got the better of him. "You know how fathers are," he would explain.

For striking the teen, Pleasant wasn't worried about the cops coming to arrest him. He expected as much. What bothered him was the prospect of retribution from the young man's relatives or friends.

Trouble was on its way. He just had this feeling.

It was a short drive from the McDonald's to North 12th and Seymour.

Patrick was in the front passenger seat. Stacey was in the rear seat behind his cousin and Joseph was seated behind the driver's seat. Michael turned onto Seymour and drove slowly down the street. The girlfriend's house was on the right, but the nephews weren't paying attention and they passed the apartment.

Michael drove on for a short distance, stopped and began to back up. The car had stopped directly in front of James K. Pleasant's house.

It was a hot night. One, if not both, door windows on the white mustang was rolled down. From the shadows of the duplex at 805 N. 12th, they saw a man peering at them, walking toward them.

He shouted: "Who that? Who that?"

Michael saw the glint of the gun's reflection in the street lights. He saw the face of the man who, 11 months later, he would still remember clearly enough to pick from a police photo lineup.

"That dude's got a gun," he yelled frantically. Acting on a primal fear, Michael slammed the shifter into first gear and stomped on the accelerator.

The six-cylinder engine responded with a roar and the car picked up speed.

The first shots ripped three-inch long holes in the driver's side door as the barrel of the revolver followed the car's getaway. As Michael stepped on the accelerator, the back window exploded into thousands of small rough-hewn spheres as bullet after bullet pierced the glass. Stacey laid on top of Joseph in the back seat to shield him from the gunfire that crisscrossed the air inches above their heads. Patrick hunkered down in the front seat.

Suddenly, the car veered and the growl of the engine subsided.

Michael had been been hit by three bullets, two of which had pierced the driver's side headrest. Unconscious, he slumped onto Patrick and the now-driverless car slammed into a late model Dodge parked on the side of the street.

"Michael got popped," Patrick shouted, cradling his bleeding uncle.

"Let's get help," Stacey screamed.

The two teens and the younger boy exited the crashed car. Stacey yelled for Joseph to follow, but the frightened youngster ran into a nearby house. With bullets still being fired at them, the two older boys fled to a nearby fast food restaurant on Gallatin road. That's where police officers found them minutes later, shaking, crying, cursing the man in the dark who had shot their uncle.