CALIFORNIA ALBUM : The crime was logged, but there’s no statistic for grief : Maryola Jones’ husband was killed by a robber who stole $50. She wants the killer to know how much pain his loss has caused.

Maryola Jones wants the person who murdered her husband and robbed him of $50 to know how the crime has devastated her life.

Jackson Jones, 50, a veteran cabdriver, picked up a fare in the early hours of April 27. He was discovered in east San Diego less than an hour later, slumped over the steering wheel of his leased Yellow Cab, shot twice in the head and once in the body.

It was the only time Jones was robbed in more than 30 years as a cabdriver, working in San Diego, Seattle, Las Vegas and other cities.

Over the years, cabdriver murders have become a common ingredient in San Diego’s menu of street violence. Still, Jones’ death received wide media coverage the day his body was discovered.

But he quickly became just another crime statistic, and the case quickly disappeared from the public eye. The killing of Jackson Jones became just another homicide investigation for San Diego police, who had neither witnesses nor suspects at the time of the shooting.

In the midst of her grief, Maryola Jones decided that her husband was not going to be just another forgotten murder victim. She wants her husband’s killer to know that in the brief time it took to pull the trigger three times, 30 years of happiness were shattered.

She prefers to be called Mrs. Jackson Jones. At 47, after almost three decades of inseparability from her husband, she is still adjusting to living alone.

Soft, dark eyes mask the anger that she feels.

“I just want to know who did it, and why they did it,” Maryola said. “All they had to do was take the money. If they had fought him like a man, the police would’ve been picking up somebody else’s behind off the street.”

She adds: “Whoever killed My Honey probably doesn’t care to know how he has destroyed my life and the lives of other people.”

To his adoring wife, Jackson Jones was “My Honey” from the moment the two met in San Bernardino, back when she was 17. Jackson was a cabdriver then, too.

In the beginning, Maryola was Jackson’s “Baby Girl.” After their daughter, now 28, and son, now 26, were born, Maryola became just “Baby.” The Joneses also have two grandchildren, both 8.

Jackson, enterprising and a hard worker, made a comfortable living for his family. According to accounts by police and friends, he was an honest and generous man.

Because she is colorblind, Maryola depended on her husband to help her pick out clothes and furniture. Maryola, who never learned to drive, says she relied on Jackson for just about everything.

He worked the cab on split shifts, but would stop cruising the streets at 7 a.m. so he could come by the couple’s apartment at 7:30 a.m., pick up Maryola and drive her two blocks to a bus stop. She would ride the bus to her job with the San Diego Community College District.

Janet Lindner, a psychologist who had known the Joneses for nine years, described them “as an unusually lovely and caring couple.” Maryola had worked as a nanny for Lindner’s three children.

“They didn’t make a whole lot of money, but they gave a great deal of it to the needy. She would cook for the homeless and feed them. They were really good citizens,” Lindner said, adding that “they were very dedicated and attached to each other. What happened to him was incredibly tragic.”

Maryola recounted an incident that occurred a few weeks before Jackson’s death, when he drove a pregnant woman and her 3-year-old daughter to a hospital and refused to charge them.

“He walked her into the hospital and held her hand while she waited for a doctor,” she said. “The little girl gave him some miniature plastic flowers as a gift, and he brought them home with him.”

Maryola keeps the flowers, no bigger than a paper clip, next to the urn containing her husband’s ashes.

She also is left with the memories.

Like the time Maryola’s bus was running late, and a panic-stricken Jackson drove his cab from stop to stop along bus Route 34, boarding each bus looking for his wife.

“It was raining. I knew I was late and I knew he was worried. The bus pulled over and in jumped My Honey, shouting, ‘Baby! Are you in here?’ I didn’t know whether to get angry or laugh,” she said.

A few days after Jackson’s death, Maryola was going through one of his drawers. Under a neat pile of clothes she found a strand of pearls and a card he planned to give her on Mother’s Day.

“I broke out laughing and told him, ‘Honey, how many times have I told you that you can’t hide anything in this house?’ . . . I’m not alone in the house. I know that he’s still here with me.

“My Honey was not ready to go. We still had many things that we had planned to do.”