Below is a reflection by Patricia King, the mother of Elijah Timmons. As you read her words consider them a call to action, and call DA Murray to demand equitable treatment for the loss of Black life.
November 24, 2023
My name is Patricia King. I am the mother of Elijah Timmons. My son was killed on November 24, 2023. That night, my son went out to enjoy himself on a holiday — never imagining he would never make it home, never see his children again, never see his family again. But from the moment he arrived, he was being watched. He was targeted. He was lured. My son was deliberately drawn into a situation — provoked, approached, and assaulted in an effort to initiate a fight. That confrontation was not random. It was intentional. It was used to lure him out into a parking lot where multiple individuals surrounded him, assaulted him, and physically blocked him from leaving. He was not free to walk away. He was trapped. Can you imagine being surrounded, trying to get away, while people laugh, record, and treat it like entertainment? That is what happened to my son. People stood around with their phones out — recording, laughing, treating violence like it was nothing more than a show. Until it became a murder scene. Moments later, my son was shot in the head. The same people who had been laughing and recording scattered and ran. But my son was left on the ground. Dying. No one helped him. No one stepped in to save him. And when law enforcement arrived, they did not save him either. Their own reports confirm that his pulse was checked. But no aid was rendered. An ambulance was staged nearby, asking when they could come — and they were told to wait.My son was left on the ground, under a sheet, taking his last breaths on cold pavement. Alone.
The Phone Call
While I was on my way to the scene, a woman who was already there called me. She sounded frantic and kept saying: “Oh my gosh, Trish, you need to get here. Please hurry up. Please get here. He still has a pulse and he’s still breathing.” I asked her, “Where are the police?” She said, “They’re here.” I asked, “Where is the ambulance?” She said, “I don’t know.” Then I asked, “What are they doing?” And she said something that made my heart drop. She said, “Nothing. They’re just standing here.” She kept repeating that Elijah was breathing and still had a pulse, but nobody was helping him. At first I was in shock listening to her. My mind couldn’t even process what she was saying. But then it clicked. If my son was breathing and had a pulse, I needed to get to him immediately. I started driving faster and screaming into the phone, “Please, please get here. He’s breathing. He has a pulse. They’re not doing anything.” When I reached Exit 49 in Hendersonville, the Orchard Bar and Grill was only a few blocks away.I didn’t stop for lights. I just went. While I was still on the phone, Elijah’s father called. When I switched over to answer, the first words he said were: “Trish… they just threw a sheet over our son.” I remember yelling back, “What the f* are you talking about?” Because on the other line, someone was still telling me that my son had a pulse and was breathing. None of it made sense. How could one person say he was breathing and had a pulse, and another say they had already thrown a sheet over him? Where was the ambulance? Where were the people trying to save him? Those questions were racing through my mind as I rushed to the scene.
When I Arrived
When I arrived, my only thought was to get to my son and check his pulse myself. Instead of compassion, I was met with force. I was screaming: “Why are you doing this? That’s my son. That’s my son. I just want to check my son.” I kept screaming: “That’s my son. I just want to check his pulse. Let me check my son.” Officers slammed me onto the pavement with such force that the wind was knocked completely out of me. They piled on top of my back. Their knees, boots, elbows, and body weight pressed into my body, pinning my arms and forcing my chest into the ground. I started realizing that I could not breathe. That is when my screams changed. I started yelling,”I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.” The pressure on my body was so intense that the air left my lungs. I remember feeling a strange, glittering sensation across my face as everything started fading. And then everything went black. I later heard one of the officers say: “Oh f*, she can’t breathe. She can’t breathe. Turn her over.” They finally got off my back and flipped me over. But even after that, while I was still handcuffed, they dragged me across the pavement. As they dragged me, my pants were pulled down from my waist to my thighs. I had no underclothes on. My entire bare body from the waist down was exposed in front of everyone standing there. People were watching. People were recording. Some were even streaming it live on social media. And all of this was happening while my son was still lying on that pavement under a sheet just feet away from me. His hand was reaching toward me. And I could not touch him. I could not help him. I could only watch.
What Happened After
Instead of being treated as a grieving mother, I was treated like a criminal. I was taken to jail. I was threatened. I was told: “If you don’t shut the f* up, I’ll shut you up.” My water was spit in. I was humiliated. I was traumatized.Three days later, I was brought in to watch surveillance footage of my son’s murder. Days after that, I buried my child. And instead of justice, I was told there would be none. I was told that no charges would be filed. I was even told: “You all are just going to get your cousins, your brothers, your friends — and his ass will be dead in a week.” That is what I was told after burying my son.
The Truth Never Changed
From that moment forward, the truth began to disappear. The story changed. The narrative shifted. Everything I said was ignored, minimized, or left out. But my story has never changed. Because I am telling the truth. Months later, I was brought back in and shown another video — a completely different version of my son’s death. A fabricated version. I have now been forced to watch two different versions of my son being killed. And I was recorded during both. At the same time, I sought help from a private investigator — someone who told me they believed me, who reviewed the evidence, who saw what I saw. And then they turned. They dropped my case and began working with the same police department I was seeking truth from. For two years, I have begged for help. I have gone to law enforcement. To state agencies. To federal agencies. To courts.To elected officials. To attorneys. I have told this story over and over and over again — until I became numb. But my story has never changed. Theirs has.
Living With This
Trauma does something to a person. People expect rage. Sometimes they expect screaming. But trauma can also cause what doctors call a freeze response. Every morning I wake up seeing my son on that pavement. I hear him calling for me. I see his hand reaching toward me. And I remember that I could not save him. That I could not even touch him. Then I still have to wake up and drive through a community where people look away, whisper, laugh, or pretend none of this happened. I still have to smile. I still have to treat people with kindness. Because that is what God asks of me. So I choose obedience. But do not mistake my quietness for weakness. I see things now. I notice when a smile is not real. I notice when someone says “luv you” instead of “I love you.” I notice when people’s patience runs thin because they cannot comprehend the weight of what I carry every day. Sometimes I withdraw. Not because I am broken.But because isolation is the only way to keep the pain from spilling into everything around me. I miss my son. I miss my family.
The Truth
Lynching did not end. It evolved. It is no longer men in white sheets. It is systems. Authority. Narratives designed to protect themselves. They take a life. Then they take the truth. They criminalize the victim. They silence the family. They rewrite the story. We have seen this pattern before — from Emmett Till, to Sandra Bland, to Trayvon Martin, to Eric Garner, to George Floyd. And now my son. Elijah Timmons. My son deserves the truth. And I will not be silent. Because the truth does not change — no matter how many times they try to rewrite it. And I will continue to speak. Because my son’s life mattered. And the truth still deserves to be heard.