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.