Two days before our conversation, he had pleaded guilty to both murders. In exchange, prosecutors dropped the murder charge against McClellan, who Jameton now claims as his common-law wife. I asked him why he did this; all of his co-defendants are taking their chances and going to trial.
"I could've taken it to trial, and I could've beat it," he said. "But I didn't want to take that chance of Jennifer going down." He ticked off the things she had done for him. Bonding him out of jail. Giving him a home. Saving his life when he wanted to go out with guns blazing. "What kind of person would I be if I let her ride on a fall?"
Besides, he said, she had something to live for: her kids. She received a 10-year sentence for the aggravated robbery of the two men Jameton said owed him money. The capital murder charge for Taylor's killing was reduced to aggravated assault, a charge that will also carry 10 years. The sentences will run concurrently. The way Jameton figures it, she's already done two years of back time in the Dallas County Jail. "Another year and a half and she'll be up for parole," he said. "Really, man, I'm just about as happy as I can be. I knew I wasn't coming home. Just to put her out there on the street, to see her kids and her grandmother again."
McClellan declined to comment for this story, as did Breanna Taylor's family. Police investigators said they were unaware of any family that Clark had. Courtland Ray Edmonds, through his mother, initially agreed to an interview and then declined. Several other defendants, including Hankins and Mann, mulled interview requests before ultimately declining.
Joe DeCorte, a private investigator who is assisting the district attorney in prosecuting these cases, told me that Jameton cut the deal not to save McClellan but to save himself. Jameton had implicated other Aryan Brotherhood members in his original confession to Mesquite police, said DeCorte, and now he was marked for death.
"That's bullshit, man," Jameton told me. "I told my homeboys what I said—they were pissed. I said, 'What can I do to fix it?' So I wrote another affidavit and cleared them all. I'm in good standing."
In one breath he spoke about his love for McClellan, in another he told me, "We would all kill for somebody."
I brought up the Taylor killing, a subject he had avoided during our two previous visits.
"That shit was messed up," he said. "I had nightmares about that shit."
He wouldn't say why she was killed but said it ripped him up the day he pleaded guilty to her murder and then had to listen to her parents as they each read from their victim's impact statement. "She didn't deserve to die," he said.
Still, he didn't stop it. He disposed of the body. Does he regret that?
"Yeah," he said, nodding. "I have dreams where I'm drowning and she's swimming up to me."
His voice trailed off. He ran a hand over the stubble on his head. "I know where the body is. If they would let me out for just a couple hours I could help them find it. It would bring some closure for her poor family. They've been through hell."
I asked him how he felt about spending the rest of his life in prison. He said it hadn't hit him yet, though he figured he had no chance of parole, and in all likelihood would do his time in administrative segregation, unless he renounced his membership in the Aryan Brotherhood. He told me he wouldn't do that. He is committed to the Aryan Brotherhood for life.