Jason Meade was convicted today. Just not of murder.

A Franklin County jury — nine women, three men — found the former sheriff’s deputy guilty of reckless homicide in the December 2020 killing of Casey Goodson Jr. Reckless homicide is a third-degree felony in the state of Ohio. It carries somewhere between nine and thirty-six months. It is the legal equivalent of a jury saying we know what you did; we just couldn’t quite bring ourselves to call it what it was.

On the murder charge, the jury hung. Again. As they did in 2024. Twice now, twelve people from this county have sat in a room with the evidence and failed to agree that what Jason Meade did to Casey Goodson Jr. was murder.

So let me lay the evidence out the way the prosecution did, because somebody should.

Casey Goodson Jr. was twenty-three years old. He was a licensed concealed carry holder. On December 4, 2020, he was walking into his grandmother’s house on the Northeast Side with a bag of Subway sandwiches in one hand and his keys in the other. He had earbuds in. He could not hear what he could not hear.

Jason Meade — a forty-seven-year-old white sheriff’s deputy and Baptist pastor — had finished a shift on a U.S. Marshals task force. Casey was not a target of that task force. Casey was not a suspect in anything. Meade has said, and only Meade has ever said, that Casey waved a gun at him from a passing vehicle. No other witness corroborated that. No camera recorded it. The Franklin County Sheriff’s Office did not equip its deputies with body cameras at the time, which is its own indictment for another column.

Meade followed Casey home. To his grandmother’s house.

What happened at that door is the part where the system keeps stumbling. Meade fired six rounds. Five of them entered Casey Goodson Jr. from the back. One entered from the side. When officers arrived, Casey’s licensed firearm was found beneath his body on his grandmother’s kitchen floor with the safety still engaged. The safety. Still on. The gun a 23-year-old man supposedly leveled at a deputy could not have fired if he’d tried.

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That is what a Franklin County jury this week was asked to decide was murder. And twice — twice — twelve of our neighbors could not get there.

Reckless homicide is what they got there on. Reckless. As if the issue were a moment of inattention. As if Jason Meade was changing the radio and accidentally let off six rounds into a young Black man’s back. The word “reckless” makes a verdict the system can stomach. It splits a kind of difference. It lets a jury go home.

Casey Goodson Jr. does not get to go home.

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Let’s be honest about what this verdict means and what it doesn’t.

It means Jason Meade is the second white law enforcement officer in the state of Ohio convicted of killing a Black man since George Floyd was murdered in Minneapolis in May 2020. The second. In nearly six years. In a state where the names keep coming. That is the bar. Set it on the floor and we still can’t seem to clear it on the first try.

It means the special prosecutor’s office did its job and a partial verdict is, in the words of Tim Merkle, something the state is “pleased with.” It means that on the courthouse steps, the police union president told the cameras he hopes there is no third trial on the murder charge. He hopes. That’s the temperature in 2026.

It means the Goodson family, who already won a $7 million civil settlement from Franklin County in 2024 — taxpayer money, our money, paid out because the county itself wouldn’t say in court what its insurance carrier said in writing — got a partial answer today. Not the answer. A partial answer. The kind that still requires a press conference to explain.

It means that during this trial, Columbus residents hung banners from highway overpasses that read Justice for Casey Goodson Jr. and Convict Murderer Meade. And the judge ordered law enforcement to take them down. In this city. In our city. The pleading of a community for one of its own was deemed prejudicial to a man on trial for shooting a community member six times.

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I want to say something to the Kinfolk reading this in Columbus tonight, because we are the ones who carry this.

Casey Goodson Jr. was somebody’s grandbaby. He was bringing food home. He had earbuds in because he was listening to music, which is what 23-year-olds do when they are walking into a house they grew up in. He was at a door he had every right to open. He did everything we tell our boys to do — licensed, lawful, headed home — and it did not save him.

A jury today said Jason Meade was reckless. We say Casey was murdered. Both can be true in a courtroom. Only one is true in our living rooms.

The state may decide whether to try this murder charge a third time. They have not announced. The defense is asking the public to be done with it. Tired. Tired. That’s the word the system reaches for when it is asking the people who buried Casey Goodson Jr. to be quiet now.

We are not done with it. We will not be done with it. Because being done with it is how a county like Franklin pays $7 million on the civil docket and 9 to 36 months on the criminal docket and calls the books closed on a young man who walked to his own door with sandwiches in his hand.

Welcome home, Columbus. We are still saying his name.

Casey Goodson Jr.

Rev. Jesse Jackson is dead at 84, and America is already doing what it always does when a Black giant exits the stage: rushing to file him into a clean little folder labeled hero or problem. He deserves neither box. He deserves the truth.

Jackson died in Chicago after years battling a rare neurological disorder and related complications—another reminder that the body keeps score, even when the spirit refuses to stop moving.

Now, here’s the part folks are going to fight about: legacy. Jesse Jackson’s legacy is complicated; it includes towering wins, sharp elbows, public controversies, and a lifelong habit of standing right in the center of history’s camera frame. Fine. Debate it.

But impact? That’s the part that outruns the arguments. Because “His legacy is complicated; his impact is measurable.”

Here’s what was really happening

Jesse Jackson didn’t just “lead marches.” “Jesse Jackson didn’t just march—he built leverage.” He understood something a lot of people still don’t want to learn: moral clarity is powerful, but power respects pressure.

He took civil rights out of the nostalgia museum and into the operating system of American life: jobs, contracts, elections, corporate boardrooms, media gatekeeping, and the permanent fight over who counts as “the public.” He built organizations and coalitions meant to extract results—Operation PUSH and, later, the Rainbow/PUSH Coalition, which formalized that coalition model and kept it going long after cameras moved on.

And he did it with language that stuck to your ribs. “I Am Somebody” wasn’t just a chant—it was a corrective to a country trained to treat Black dignity as negotiable

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Key moments

1) He turned coalition politics into an actual strategy

People throw around “coalition” like it’s a cute photo-op of everybody holding hands. Jesse treated it like warfare—with spreadsheets, targets, and consequences. “Rainbow politics wasn’t a vibe—it was a strategy.”

His whole approach was about expanding the table while refusing to beg for scraps. He pushed a multiracial, multi-issue frame—race, class, labor, gender, LGBTQ+ rights—then dared the Democratic Party to either grow up or get left behind.

2) He made Black presidential ambition thinkable on live TV

Jesse Jackson ran for the Democratic presidential nomination in 1984 and 1988, and no, he didn’t win. That’s not the point. The point is that he showed the country something it pretended it wasn’t ready to see: a Black candidate building a national coalition, stacking delegates, and forcing the party to say the quiet parts out loud.

Say it with your chest: “He made Black political ambition sound normal on national TV.”

And yes—if you’ve ever watched a candidate talk to Black voters like their campaign rent was due on Friday, “If you’ve ever watched a candidate court Black voters like their life depended on it, you’ve seen his fingerprints.”

3) He dragged corporate America into the conversation—whether it liked it or not

Jackson’s critics love to reduce him to microphones and theatrics. But the real work was often boring: boycotts, negotiations, demands, follow-ups, and the constant insistence that “diversity” isn’t a commercial—it’s employment, vendors, contracts, and decision-making.

This is where impact beats legacy every time. Movements can win hearts. Jesse tried to win budgets.

4) He practiced “freelance diplomacy” when the government couldn’t (or wouldn’t)

One of the wildest parts of Jesse Jackson’s career is how often he walked into geopolitical messes as a private citizen and walked out with people released. Reuters and other accounts credit him with helping secure the release of Americans held abroad and serving as an envoy to Africa during the Clinton era.

And whether you love that or hate it, it speaks to the same core principle: “He didn’t wait for permission from power; he negotiated with it.”

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So what?

• Black politics today is built on infrastructure he normalized. National campaigns courting Black voters, coalition math, movement language in policy debates—this didn’t appear out of thin air.

• He proved protest isn’t the only lever—organized bargaining is. A march is a moment. An institution is a machine. Jesse built machines.

• He modeled the cost of being “inside-outside.” When you pressure presidents and CEOs, you get results—and enemies. That tension shaped his whole public life.

• He helped globalize Black freedom as a human rights issue. Tributes today highlight his anti-apartheid advocacy and international solidarity, which mattered because U.S. racial hierarchy has always been part of a global system.

And here’s the bluntest truth: “The debates about Jesse will fade; the doors he kicked open won’t.”

What could break this? (failure modes)

1. We turn him into a Hallmark quote instead of a playbook. “Keep hope alive wasn’t a slogan—it was a workload.” If we only keep the slogan, we lose the method.

2. Coalition politics collapses into clout politics. Jesse’s model required discipline, negotiation, and uncomfortable alliances—not just trending topics.

3. Institutions absorb the aesthetics of justice while resisting the economics of justice. He fought for contracts and jobs because symbolism alone doesn’t pay rent. That fight is still unfinished.

What to watch next (signals)

1. What happens to the Rainbow/PUSH Coalition now—leadership, priorities, and whether it stays a pressure organization or becomes a legacy brand.

2. How 2026–2028 Democrats talk about Black voters—substance vs. performance, policy vs. pandering.

3. Whether “economic justice” returns as a central frame (jobs, wages, contracts, education) instead of an afterthought.

4. How younger organizers talk about Jesse—do they inherit the coalition method or reject it as “old politics”?

5. The global tributes—especially from leaders and movements who saw him as part of a broader anti-racist, anti-apartheid international story.

Jesse Jackson will be argued about forever. That’s what happens when you spend your life applying pressure in public.

But the scoreboard matters more than the commentary. He expanded what Black America could demand, and he forced America to respond—sometimes with progress, sometimes with backlash, often with both.

His legacy is messy. His impact? It’s everywhere.

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SOURCING / TRANSPARENCY FOOTER (sources used)

• Associated Press • The Rev. Jesse Jackson… has died at 84 • Feb 17, 2026

• Reuters • Jesse Jackson… dies at 84 • Feb 17, 2026

• The Guardian • Jesse Jackson… dies aged 84 • Feb 17, 2026

• The Washington Post • Jesse Jackson… dies at 84 • Feb 17, 2026

• Rainbow PUSH Coalition • Brief History / Organization and Mission • (site pages)

• Encyclopaedia Britannica • Operation PUSH • (page updated)

• WTTW • Rev. Jesse Jackson… dies at 84 • Feb 17, 2026