A new twist is putting fresh attention on the death of Jamaria Sessions, a child authorities describe as 9 years old when she was found dead in Lake County, Florida on June 17, 2024.
In a FOX 35 Orlando report, Hannah Mackenzie says handwritten jail letters exchanged between the two defendants are now under intense scrutiny because they appear to include admissions and strategy talk about what to do next.
The story, as Mackenzie lays it out, is grim from the start. She reports the girl was “beaten,” “tortured,” and even attacked by a dog, and that investigators say the injuries showed prolonged abuse.
The letters matter because they aren’t polished legal statements. They read like private conversations between two people who believed they were speaking to each other—raw, sloppy, and sometimes revealing in ways formal interviews aren’t.
Mackenzie also frames the moment as emotional for the victim’s family, especially the grandmother, who says the letters reignited her determination to fight for justice, even if it takes years.
Letters From Behind Bars Draw New Focus
In the FOX 35 report, anchors LuAnne Sorell and John Brown introduce the story by saying a woman accused in the case “allegedly confesses” in a series of jailhouse letters. Mackenzie then picks up the thread and explains she spoke directly with the girl’s grandmother about what the family is seeing and feeling now.
Mackenzie says the letters were exchanged between boyfriend and girlfriend while both were incarcerated: Tyshael Martin and Lo Juan Sessions.
According to excerpts Mackenzie reads, Sessions appears to coach Martin on how to frame what happened.
One line Mackenzie highlights has Sessions writing that if things happened “but you didn’t do it on purpose,” then “that’s not premeditated,” followed by advice to “explain it” and “get a good deal” through confession or cooperation.
That kind of language jumps off the page because it doesn’t sound like grief. It sounds like damage control.
Mackenzie also shares an excerpt she attributes to Martin: “Although I don’t remember doing the things I saw in that video, the video is proof that it happened.” Mackenzie reports Martin adds that at this point they can “confess to God,” “repent,” and try to do better.
Even without hearing tone or seeing handwriting, it’s hard not to notice what’s happening there. Mackenzie’s reporting suggests the letters circle around accountability, but also around minimizing intent, shaping a narrative, and figuring out what a “deal” might look like.
The Charges And The Timeline
Mackenzie reports that Tyshael Martin faces a first-degree murder charge. She is accused of killing Jamaria, who Mackenzie identifies as the daughter of Lo Juan Sessions.
Mackenzie also reports that Sessions is charged with aggravated manslaughter of a child.
The case timeline is anchored to a specific date. Mackenzie says Jamaria was found dead on June 17, 2024, and the details described by authorities paint a picture of long-term harm rather than one sudden event.
In cases like this, words can become evidence in unusual ways. A sentence written casually in jail can be treated like a window into state of mind—knowledge, intent, and awareness of wrongdoing.
That’s why these letters are being looked at so closely now. Even if the writers didn’t mean to “confess” in a traditional sense, the contents can still land like admissions when read in the context of charges this serious.
What Deputies Say They Found
Mackenzie points to what the Lake County Sheriff’s Office says deputies discovered when they found Jamaria. She reports deputies found the child naked, covered in “cuts,” “punctures,” “burns,” “bruises,” and possible “bite marks,” with injuries described as being in different stages of healing.
That detail – injuries at different stages – matters because it suggests time. It suggests repeated harm rather than a single moment.
It also changes how many people hear the word “accident.” When the physical evidence points to prolonged abuse, it becomes harder for any explanation to sound accidental, even before a jury ever hears a case.
Mackenzie’s report doesn’t try to argue the case in court. But by laying out what deputies said they saw, it makes clear why the family’s grief is mixed with anger – and why the letters, with their casual tone and talk of deals, feel so upsetting to those left behind.
A Grandmother’s Grief, And A Holiday That Doesn’t Feel Like One
Mackenzie’s reporting centers heavily on the grandmother, Althea Chenault, who spoke about Jamaria as a child with a bright personality. “She would light up a whole room,” Chenault told Mackenzie.
That’s the kind of line families say about someone they miss, but it also serves a purpose in stories like this. It pulls the victim out of the case file and back into reality – a kid who laughed, played, and had habits and traditions like any other child.
Mackenzie reports Chenault is facing “yet another Christmas” without her granddaughter. Chenault described a tradition that stopped because the person who made it meaningful is gone.
“We used to be making those houses for Christmas… but now we not doing it because she not here,” Chenault told Mackenzie, referring to making holiday houses together.
That’s the part of loss that doesn’t show up in legal documents. Court records can list dates and injuries and charges, but they can’t measure the way an empty chair quietly erases a family tradition.
Mackenzie also reports Chenault said she couldn’t bring herself to read all the letters. What she did read made her angry, and she didn’t want to spiral into emotional pain she couldn’t control.
The Part That Stings Most: The Tone
Mackenzie says the letters didn’t just reopen wounds – they did it in a specific way. Chenault told her the exchanges felt flippant, like the defendants were talking about ordinary life while a child’s death hung over everything.
Mackenzie reports that the letters included talk about everyday stuff – health complaints, cravings, wanting to “watch movies” and “chill.” She says what Chenault didn’t see in the letters was remorse.
“They were still talking and joking in the letters like it was okay what happened,” Chenault told Mackenzie. She described seeing “LOL,” “laugh out loud,” and “I love you” language woven into conversations that, to her, should have sounded devastated.
“It is just heartbreaking,” Chenault said, according to Mackenzie. “I try to be strong. I’m being strong. I have to be.”
It’s difficult to read that and not think about how two realities can exist at once. On one side, a family is counting the holidays without a child. On the other, the accused are passing time, talking about fast food, and trying to game out legal consequences.
That contrast can become its own form of emotional evidence in the public’s mind. A jury will be instructed to focus on facts, but human beings still react to tone, attitude, and what looks like indifference.
“I Tried So Hard”: The Warning Signs Before The Death
One of the most haunting parts of Mackenzie’s report is what Chenault says about the months or years before Jamaria died. Mackenzie reports that Chenault says she made police reports and contacted CPS multiple times, trying to get custody of Jamaria and her sisters.
That claim adds another layer: the idea that the system may have been warned.
Chenault told Mackenzie she tried to save them, and now she’s left with the feeling that nothing she did was enough. “I try so hard to save them,” she said in Mackenzie’s report, adding, “Ain’t nothing I can do to save them.”
When families say things like that, it usually means they’ve been living with fear for a long time. It also means this case, for them, isn’t only about a trial – it’s about whether institutions listened when someone raised a red flag.
Even if the legal outcome is still unknown, the emotional message is already loud: if multiple calls were made, people will ask who acted, who didn’t, and why.
What Comes Next As The Case Moves Toward Trial
Mackenzie ends her report with the sense that this will be a long road. She says the grandmother knows justice could take time and she plans to keep showing up, watching the case play out in court.
As for the letters themselves, Mackenzie reports they are drawing scrutiny now, and they are central to the renewed attention around the case. Whether they become formal trial exhibits is ultimately a courtroom decision, but the content is already influencing how the public understands the defendants’ mindset.
There’s also a larger point hiding in plain sight. Jail letters are often where people drop the mask – because they’re bored, because they’re lonely, because they think nobody else will read their words.
And when those words get pulled into daylight, they can become a kind of accidental testimony.
Mackenzie’s reporting doesn’t claim the letters are the only evidence. But it makes clear why they matter: they sound like two defendants talking about what happened, what can be proven, and what strategy might reduce consequences – while a family reads along and hears something else entirely.
In the end, that may be the most unsettling thing here. A child is dead. A grandmother is counting the holidays without her. And the paper trail from behind bars may help decide what accountability looks like next.
Raised in a small Arizona town, Kevin grew up surrounded by rugged desert landscapes and a family of hunters. His background in competitive shooting and firearms training has made him an authority on self-defense and gun safety. A certified firearms instructor, Kevin teaches others how to properly handle and maintain their weapons, whether for hunting, home defense, or survival situations. His writing focuses on responsible gun ownership, marksmanship, and the role of firearms in personal preparedness.
