Текст книги "Death Trap"

Автор книги: M. William Phelps

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

30

According to Jeff McCord’s version, on Monday morning, February 18, 2002, he and Jessica took off to Opelika, Alabama, a town about 140 miles, or a 135-minute drive, from Hoover. Born in Tallahassee, Florida, before living in Cairo, Georgia, for a brief spell, Jeff moved to Opelika with his mom after his parents split up (and later divorced). Jeff had graduated from Opelika High School.

As police searched his home back in Hoover that day, Jeff and Jessica cruised the streets of Opelika. At the center of their conversation was what Jeff was going to do about his job: call in sick or show up? His house was in the process of a second search by the HPD. Cops talked, Jeff knew. The Hoover PD had a full report on Jeff, his entire life and career as a police officer. More than that, Jeff heard that his Pelham PD patrol commander was looking for him and wanted to talk before his shift started later that afternoon. Hearing this, Jeff knew darn well what was going on.

At 10:00 A.M. Jeff called work.

“Hold on,” dispatch told him. The call was rerouted to the chief’s office. Jeff had a feeling dispatch had been waiting for his call.

“McCord,” the chief said, “you need to be in my office today at four. Bring in your badge and ID. You’re going on administrative leave for the time being.”

Jeff hung up. Dropped his shoulders. He realized how serious the situation had become. When he met Jessica, she had seemed so boisterous and fun and bossy—which he liked. A woman in charge. She knew what she wanted. That was all well and good when dealing with laundry and food shopping and picking colors of drapes and styles of tile and wallpaper. Maybe even when it came to parenting. Jeff didn’t mind standing aside to let Jessica take the wheel. In many ways, Jeff later said, Jessica was the first “real” relationship he was involved in. He had dated a beautiful woman for two-and-a-half years during college, and for a short time afterward. But that woman, Jeff later told me, was rather “normal,” as compared to the relationship he later got mixed up in with Jessica.

“At the same time,” Jeff added, “if [a] ‘real’ [relationship] means the other person is divorced, has three kids and [a] trainload of baggage, then I guess it may well depend on one’s definition and one’s perspective. I readily concede that cluelessness and ineptitude on my part may well have made things worse or at least different than they were and/or turned out to be. Also,” Jeff cleared up, “Jessica was not the first woman with whom I had had sexual relations.”

Some claimed she had been.

Jessica and Jeff headed back to Hoover from Opelika on Monday. Jeff stopped by the house after dropping Jessica off (one would guess at her mother’s) to pick up his uniforms and badges. Then he took off for Pelham.

A Hoover police officer got behind Jeff as he left the Myrtlewood Drive house and followed him as other officers joined the motorcade. Jeff drove a U-Haul truck he and Jessica had rented (for no apparent reason he could later give—“We just needed it”).

“We weren’t hiding the fact by then that we were following Jeff McCord,” one law enforcement source told me.

Near Route 31 and Lorna Road, the HPD hit their lights.

“Anyway,” Jeff recalled, “I get pulled over by half of Hoover’s evening shift.” It was funny to him that the HPD had no fewer than six officers tailing him.

Tom McDanal and Peyton Zanzour were part of that team.

“License and reg,” one of the patrol officers asked Jeff after he rolled down his window and asked what was going on.

Jeff nodded. Did what he was told. What else could he do? He knew what was going on.

“Give us a minute.”

Some time later, Jeff got his license back. “Where y’all headin’?”

“Pelham,” Jeff said.

They let him go.

Jeff walked into the Pelham PD about ten minutes later and went directly to the chief’s office.

The chief had a written notification of Jeff’s administrative leave on his desk, waiting for Jeff’s signature.

Jeff paused. Reluctant, he took the pen and signed.

“You need to contact me, [the captain or the lieutenant] at some point during the day, until you’re told otherwise, McCord. You understand?”

Jeff nodded his head. He knew the routine. He was being babysat. Watched. Told what to do and when to do it. Guilty before innocent. Jeff was well aware how things worked once law enforcement got a whiff. Although he was upset and somewhat angry for not being granted the benefit of the doubt, he could not deny the fact that there was a double-murder investigation going on that was mainly focused on his wife. If he hadn’t been part of the actual murder, he was connected to it by marriage. Either way, he couldn’t do his job as a police officer.

From there, Jeff drove back to the house, watched the HPD finish that second search and then voluntarily went down to the HPD to answer questions. He was then picked up by Jessica. They drove to Florida to drop the kids off at her sister’s house.

While in Florida, Jeff called the chief’s office as part of that daily ball-and-chain order he had signed.

“You need to be in my office at nine tomorrow morning,” the chief told Jeff that Tuesday.

“What is it? Disciplinary matter or what? What’s going on? Something come up?” Jeff wanted details. Thought he deserved them. He hadn’t been charged with a crime. Neither had Jessica. Now the Pelham PD was pulling his strings, making demands. He didn’t have to do anything he didn’t want to do.

“Look, McCord, you just need to be here.”

Jeff thought about it. He didn’t like the tone. He was upset that the chief was so steely and not giving him an opportunity to explain. Nor was the chief forthcoming with any information. In addition, it was clear there was going to be a disciplinary hearing on the day Jeff returned.

“Screw it,” Jeff said. “Fire me if you want.”

The following afternoon, a Wednesday, the Pelham PD fired Jeff McCord. This occurred as the HPD made it public that Jeff and Jessica McCord were its chief suspects in the murders of Alan and Terra Bates.

When Jeff heard he had been canned, he and Jessica drove into downtown Birmingham. HPD investigators tailing the couple watched as they parked near a professional building. The media was there waiting. Birmingham News journalist Carol Robinson was among them. Word was that Jeff and Jessica were going to hire David Cromwell Johnson.

“[Johnson] was the highest-profile defense lawyer in town at the time, and we all camped outside his office that day, waiting to get a glimpse of Jessica and Jeff for the first time,” Carol told me.

Carol wanted a comment from Jessica to fill in a story she was working on. Carol didn’t know quite what to expect.

As Jessica started for the building, Carol got up next to her and announced, “I’m from the Birmingham News, Mrs. McCord. My name’s Carol Robinson. Can I get a statement from you?”

Jessica took one look at the reporter. Stopped. Snubbed her nose. Then sneered, “You’re a liar!”

Carol had no idea that she was so popular in the McCord household.

“It was the only time she ever spoke to me.”

Heading into Cromwell’s office, Jeff and Jessica were apparently getting themselves lawyered up and ready to do battle with Roger Brown and the Hoover PD.

31

For the Alabama Dance Academy the annual recital is one of those yearly events signaling the unofficial start of summer. All the bliss of hot days in the pool, walking along the beach, a day in the park, as well as barbeques and family picnics, is right around the corner. Soon schools will pop their doors open and unleash the children. They’ll turn giddy and bored and begin to look for things to do. For the dance studios all of this summer folly begins on recital day. It is a time when little girls and boys dress up in their colorful patent leather costumes, down feathers, silk scarves, spandex pants, then take to the stage for that one day when the spotlight is all theirs. They two-step and tap, do hip-hop and ballet. They smile until their blushed cheeks hurt. Mothers busy themselves backstage making sure every seam is pressed, every hair in place, every dance routine remembered. The culmination of ten months of rehearsals.

Over in one (long) afternoon.

And so it was in late June 1999 that nine-year-old Samantha Bates found herself inside the historic Alabama Theatre, backstage. She was there to take part in the Alabama Dance Academy’s “Evening of Dance,” waiting for her chance to enter stage right and perform a routine she had practiced since the start of the school year. Standing in line next to Sam was her dance instructor. Sam had been taking classes since 1996, McKenna having joined in 1998. Sam could feel the excitement in the room. Raw nerves. The anxious butterflies flapping their wings inside the tummies of all the girls and boys.

The lights.

The music.

Grandparents.

Moms.

Dads.

Friends.

Everyone there to cheer on their favorite dancer.

“Miss Pamela,” Sam said to her instructor, Pamela Merkel Sayle, tugging at her blouse, “can you say hello to my daddy for me?”

Alan felt at home inside the theater, having worked in the building now for years. As part of a deal he had made with Pamela Sayle, Alan took care of the recital’s technical details. Although he was working, Alan had that proud smile only the father of a little dancer can muster. He was going to watch his little girl perform today, and Jessica was not going to be able to stop him or interfere.

Alleluia.

Kneeling down eye level with Sam, Pamela pointed to Alan. “Well, Sam, he’s right over there. You can get out of line and go say [hello] yourself.”

The well-liked dance instructor smiled. What was the big deal?

Sam stared at the floor. Paused. Then, “But I can’t, Miss Pamela. My mommy said I was not allowed to speak with my daddy.”

Little Samantha couldn’t help herself. Like her sister, she loved her father. She was a child—like millions—caught in the whirlwind swirling amid the selfishness some parents harbor when battling over issues that have little to do with the children’s well-being and everything to do with getting back at a spouse because of some deep-seated resentment. It’s pure torture on kids. Yet so few parents are able to see beyond the self-centered ideology of themselves. Where the kids were concerned, Jessica created every possible difficulty she could for Alan. It was as if the court did not exist. Jessica believed she could do whatever she wanted and she would not have to answer for it.

To anyone.

Standing so close to her father as he worked backstage, Alan glowing and beaming, having not seen him for some time, Sam decided to walk over and pay her pop a visit.

Alan smiled when he saw his little girl coming toward him. Held out his arms.

Still under her mother’s spell, however, Sam was true to her keeper: she hugged Alan, but then got back into line with the other dancers—this, mind you, without speaking one word to her father.

Pamela Sayle was surprised. She hadn’t realized things had spiraled so out of control—that the communication between Jessica and Alan had broken down so badly. Indeed, many later said that Jessica warned Sam and McKenna not to speak to their father. Under no circumstances were the kids to exchange words with Alan—unless, of course, Jessica gave the order. Pamela Sayle knew Jessica and Alan were having problems. It was not uncommon for Jessica to show up at Sayle’s dance studio and announce to the instructor and her aides that they were not to allow Alan to pick up the kids from dance.

He was never to take them.

Court orders.

It was a lie. But no one questioned Jessica—why would they?

But now, Jessica wasn’t allowing the kids to even speak to their father.

One evening, Pam recalled, when Jessica picked up Sam and McKenna at the Alabama Dance Academy, she babbled about her (supposed) latest dilemma with Alan. It was right after Alan and Terra hooked up. Alan informed Jessica he was taking the visitation situation to family court to get things settled. It wasn’t what he wanted to do, but Jessica had forced his hand.

Jessica was incensed at the notion that she could lose custody of her kids. As far as she could tell, Alan’s plan all along was to get sole custody and take the kids away from her.

And that, she decided, was never going to happen.

“What’s wrong?” Pamela asked Jessica, noticing how on edge she seemed. Pam was curious why Jessica was so irritated.

A smirk flashed across Jessica’s face—that Joker-like grimace Jessica could call up in a moment’s notice, the one that screamed revenge. She was up to something.

“I’ll take the girls to Florida,” Jessica snapped back at Pamela, “if he ever tries to get them!”

Knowing Alan was involved in a long-term relationship with Terra, and might marry her one day, Jessica needed to act. She was a single mom. Alan was working on creating stability, which Jessica knew the courts would look at favorably.

One other time, Pam later testified, some weeks after that first incident, Jessica was in a rage over Alan and his desire to take her to court. The court had set a trial date and Pre-Trial Order for September 14, 1999. The judge had asked each party to file “a list of all [their] personal and/or real property,” among other actions. This grated on Jessica’s unstable temperament. She hated the idea of being told what to do. The court even “encouraged professional counseling” to rectify the issues of visitation and child custody. After all, it could only help. A trial was going to turn things nastier.

Apparently, however, Jessica had a new plan.

Pam asked if everything was all right.

“If he ever tries to get the girls,” Jessica said, helping one of the kids put on her jacket, “he’ll regret it.”

Jessica was not going to allow her ex-husband to have his way. Nor was she going to permit another woman, especially someone she saw as prissy and prudish, to step into her role as the mother of her children. Just wasn’t going to happen. In her mind Jessica was undoubtedly prepared to do everything in her power to see that Alan and Terra never got custody of the kids. Thus, the situation—a war Jessica had waged—wasn’t about Alan not seeing the children anymore.

It was about winning.

Beating Alan.

Alan’s plan, up to this point, had never involved taking legal full-time custody of his kids. Jessica was telling people this—one could only assume—to draw sympathy and make Alan out to be an aggressive, uncaring monster. Alan was known as the proverbial “peacemaker” in his family. Many of his friends agreed with this. Alan never once vocalized a desire to take the kids away from their mother—even when Jessica was at her worst. To the contrary, Alan was all for the kids staying with Jessica. Providing, that is, she could raise them in a way he saw fit. Part of that upbringing needed to include Jessica fulfilling her end of the divorce decree regarding visitation.

From old friends and family, Alan got word that Jessica routinely dropped the kids off at the houses of friends and family (her mother included) and took off for an indeterminate amount of time. Jessica pushed the responsibility of raising their kids, it seemed, on everyone else but Alan. This made it clear to Alan she was punishing him. No other reason. She wanted to hurt him.

“Alan just wanted to see his children,” Robert Bates later explained. “But she kept shoving him back.”

Alan and Terra planned to get married at the end of June 1999. They talked about having the wedding on the stage of the Alabama Theatre, a building they had grown to love throughout the years of their relationship. Invitations were printed. The caterer hired. Flowers purchased. Limos. Gowns. Little wedding favors picked out.

But Jessica wasn’t about to let Alan go through with it. If Alan got married, what would a judge say about his situation? Alan would have that lock on stability first. Terra would be the kids’ stepmother. Both Alan and Terra had clean records, something Jessica couldn’t claim. Jessica feared the worst. So she kept the girls away from Alan the week leading up to the wedding.

No one could find them.

“No kids, no wedding,” Alan said.

Terra had no trouble with the decision. She understood. There was no way she was about to marry Alan without his kids being part of the ceremony.

“Instead of going through with the wedding,” Kevin Bates later said, “Alan and Terra decided to postpone it. They weren’t about to get married without the girls present. Whether or not Jessica was responsible for keeping the kids away, Alan knew it would send the wrong message to them.”

Some weeks later, as the subject of when to reschedule the wedding came up, something else happened. The last year and more had taken its toll on Alan. He was ready to give up. He felt there was no way he could drag another human being—suffice it to say, a woman he loved deeply—into such a mess.

It wasn’t fair.

Terra hadn’t been feeling herself lately. She was tired a lot. It turned out to be Crohn’s disease, a debilitating disorder that causes inflammation of the digestive tract, as well as a host of other symptoms that make life uncomfortable at best, miserable at worst: frequent abdominal cramps, dry skin, joint pain, stress.

She flew to Iowa to work on a special project one weekend. Alan met Terra at the Birmingham Airport a few days later. He looked glum, Terra noticed as she walked into the terminal. Alan had his head down. Seemed preoccupied. Not himself. Terra knew him well enough by this point. His demeanor. It was different. Something was going on.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Alan, what is it? I know you.”

“I don’t know that I’m—I’m”—Alan had a hard time getting it out—“ready to get married.”

There it was: out in the open like an exposed secret. She’d asked for it.

Terra was astounded. Hurt. She didn’t know what to say.

She called her father later that night and told him the story.

Tom Klugh loved hearing from his only daughter. They had weekly talks. Tom thought only the best of Alan. Knew he was the perfect husband for his daughter. Terra expressed how happy she was with Alan, and how much she loved his kids.

Terra explained how she felt about this latest incident. Every detail.

“I’m so sorry, sweetie,” Tom responded when she was finished talking. “What can I do to help?”

“That is going to be it.”

Tom didn’t understand. “What do you mean?”

“Alan and me. I think I’m done.”

Terra didn’t have the energy to go back and forth with Alan on a relationship seesaw: seeing him, not seeing him; getting married, not getting married. It wasn’t her. Terra was all about yes or no. She didn’t want to be with someone who didn’t want to be with her.

Not a week later, Tom talked to Terra again and things seemed better.

“I think I’m going to give him another chance,” she said. “I really love him, Dad. If it can work out, I want it to.”

It wasn’t that Alan didn’t want to marry Terra—his decision had nothing to do with love. Nor was it a reflection of Terra’s character. Alan adored Terra more than any woman he had ever met or dated. They were perfect together. Alan felt torn that his ex-wife was torturing their lives. Day in and day out. Jessica ran their emotions. Now she had gone and destroyed their wedding day. What else was she capable of doing? What else would she do? Alan didn’t want to drag such a sweet person as Terra into the chaos of his life dealing with Jessica. Terra had endured it long enough already. Didn’t matter what Terra said. That unconditional love she showered on Alan and the kids was something Alan did not want to take advantage of. Enough was enough. Jessica wasn’t going to hurt anybody else.

On the flip side of Alan’s decision was the notion that he did not want to play into Jessica’s hand. If Alan and Terra went forward with their wedding—without the children—Jessica could turn around, take the kids aside and make a case: See, Daddy doesn’t love you. . . . He went and got married without you. Alan knew Jessica pounced on any opportunity to bad-mouth him. He understood that Jessica was filling the kids with this sort of rhetoric, anyway, telling them he had run off with Terra and was creating a new life without them, that he really didn’t care anymore. Saying it was his fault they never saw him, not hers. Why give the woman more ammunition?

So Terra and Alan talked it through and agreed to wait. It had been four years since they met. What was another month, or two, or even three?