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?

32

The idea that Jeff and Jessica were on the run during the week of February 20, 2002, was the result of circumstance. Because they had not returned to Jessica’s mother’s house, or to their own home, it appeared they were running. When, in fact, the couple was just trying to avoid what was turning into unneeded attention swelling around them in relation to the deaths of Alan and Terra Bates.

As it turned out, Jeff and Jessica could not afford high-profile attorney David Cromwell Johnson. They had little money. Hardly any assets. And Johnson’s fee was pricey for two people not working.

Still, Johnson told the press that “the police know where the McCords are staying.”

No one else did, however.

Johnson’s prudent advice was made clear in an article written by Carol Robinson that day. “They’re just trying to get away for a while,” the attorney commented, “and I think they should.”

With all that was happening around her, faced with a situation she knew to be the result of her own behavior, there was something about Jessica that automatically switched into “how do I get out of this?” mode. Or, more pointedly: “how can I spin this to my favor?”

Take your pick.

When Jessica checked into the hospital to give birth to McKenna in November 1992, she claimed to have almost died. According to one source, Jessica said the hospital had failed to give her an epidural and she nearly bled to death. Upon visiting her in the hospital, the source couldn’t believe the stories coming out of Jessica’s mouth regarding the treatment she had received while in the hospital.

As her friend Candice (pseudonym) sat with Jessica a day after the birth, Jessica carried on about the hospital staff and how bad the service and medical treatment was during her short stay. The staff was brutal, she reported. She had suffered every moment while being in the place.

Jessica is going somewhere with this, Candice thought as she sat and listened.

“I need to use the restroom,” Candice said at one point. She had sat for a while, listening to Jessica’s diatribe. It was time to step away from her and catch her breath.

“You can’t use the bathroom,” Jessica said from bed. “Don’t go in there.”

Curious because of the way Jessica had phrased her words, Candice walked over and pushed the restroom door open.

“When I got there,” Candice told me later, “the bathroom floor . . . was covered in blood. I was physically ill from this.”

Looking back at the scene, going over those complaints from Jessica, knowing what Jessica had said about suing the hospital, Candice realized Jessica “was only doing all of this so she didn’t have to pay for the hospital bill.”

On Wednesday night, February 20, 2002, Jessica had a major problem to confront. She and Jeff were holed up at a friend’s house in Alabaster, Alabama, twenty minutes south of Birmingham. Jessica had grown up with the guy. He was a friend of the family.

The HPD had a source inside Jessica’s assembly of family and friends calling in the McCords’ status whenever possible. This person was close to the action. No sooner had Jeff and Jessica shown up in Alabaster than the HPD got a call.

The HPD and Roger Brown had been waiting on word from ballistics for a match to the bullet found in the McCords’ garage against the bullet found in the trunk of Alan’s rental car. By late Wednesday night, that report had finally come in.

Arrest warrants for Jeff and Jessica were issued immediately afterward.

At some point Detective Laura Brignac telephoned Naomi, who was taken aback by the accusations surrounding her friend. She had been reading about Jessica in the newspapers. The possibility that Jessica was involved did not override the fact that Alan and his wife (two people Naomi knew and liked very much) were dead. Still, hearing the news, Naomi was now certain Jessica was somehow responsible.

Naomi had been trying to find Jessica for several days. She had given a statement to the Bureau and HPD, inviting them into her home so they could record any phone calls from Jessica. Investigators let Naomi know they were looking for a particular friend of Jessica’s in Alabaster, a guy Naomi and her husband had also gone to high school with and knew fairly well. Naomi called the guy and left several messages, asking him to phone the HPD immediately.

He never did.

“Naomi, can we bring Jessica’s children by . . . ?” Detective Laura Brignac called and asked that night. The kids were being driven back from Florida, and the HPD needed a friend of the family to look after them while they found grief counselors. There was an indication that Randy Bates, who lived in Birmingham, was going to eventually take the kids and drive them to Georgia.

Naomi said no problem.

That night came and went, and the HPD never showed up with the kids.

The next morning, while Naomi was at work, Jessica called. “You believe that I did this?” Jessica asked pointedly. She needed to know.

Naomi paused. She didn’t want to get into it. Not at work. She couldn’t record the call, anyway. What if Jessica admitted something important or incriminated herself?

“I would hope you didn’t do it, Jess,” Naomi said.

“Listen, I need you to put your house up for me for my bond and my legal fees if I am arrested.”

There was no pause this time. “I cannot do that, Jess. I already have a second mortgage—”

Jessica interrupted. Said she didn’t care. “Just do it.”

“I can’t get any more money out of this house. It’s just not possible.”

Jessica turned irrational, Naomi later said. (“She just wasn’t getting it.”) She did not want to take no for an answer. She did not care about banks and equity and mortgages. Jessica McCord wanted what she wanted—and that was that.

“Are you okay?” Naomi asked, changing the subject.

“I’m mad. . . . I didn’t do it!”

Naomi had no idea how to play this. But at some point she decided that she wasn’t going to sugarcoat the situation any longer. Enough of playing along like everything was okay and she believed in her friend. Time to expose the elephant in the room.

“Jess, how do you expect me to believe any of this when you and I, we had that conversation last week?”

Naomi sat at her desk, waiting for a reply, thinking about what Jessica had told her just about a week prior. It was near Valentine’s Day. Naomi called Jessica. “Jess, I need help with this project of mine. Can you do it?” One of Naomi’s kids had to say ten words in Spanish. Naomi knew Jessica and Jeff were somewhat fluent in the language. She figured they could help.

“Look,” Jessica said, “we’re all asleep right now. Can I call you back?”

Naomi took the phone away from her ear: Asleep? It was six o’clock in the evening. What in the hell are they all doing sleeping now?