The court sent Jessica a form to fill out requesting new counsel. It was An Explanation of Your Complaint. It made the inmate state his or her case in writing, certifying that the words on the page were correct—and that he or she would be willing to sign a statement under oath. Jessica had her formal complaint notarized on January 8, 2003. Attached to it was a five-page explanation by Jessica of all the problems she’d allegedly had while incarcerated. It was a toned-down version of her previous diatribes to the judge.

A day later, Jessica sent a second letter “to whom it may concern,” this time trying to verify receipt of the complaint. Again she talked about her mail being tampered with and—in not so many words—how the entire prison system was out to get her. She also mentioned the idea that she wanted to file multiple complaints.

The loss of control Jessica had in her life—being confined to jail and unable to find out what was going on or to call people and tell them off and to manipulate those in her life—was eating her up inside. You can sense it in the pages of her letters. The desperation. The lack of ability to let go. The impossibility to manage her own impulse to reach out and attack people. Jessica McCord could not shut up, do her time and wait for her chance to speak in court. She had to get her hands wet. As she had done with Alan all those years, she believed she could influence the court system enough to play by her rules. She obviously thought that by writing the letters, filing complaints, making erroneous accusations against anyone not on her side, she would one day see freedom—that someone would listen and understand and fight for her cause. She wrote letters to a judge of the court, asking question after question, expecting, somehow, that in the simple act of asking, the allegations alone would free her. There was never one bit of remorse, accountability or sorrow for the deaths of Alan and Terra, regardless if she was responsible or not. She never once mentioned the fact that her children were now without a father. The letters focused entirely on her own needs. Symptoms of narcissistic personality disorder bled from every stroke of her pen. Jessica failed to recognize or understand—or maybe thought she was beyond reproach to face double-murder charges—that two people had been viciously mowed down with a hail of bullets, and the evidence—all of it—pointed to her and her husband.

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By the end of January, Jessica got her sister involved in a new letter-writing campaign. This time the missives were sent to John Wiley, her attorney. The main thrust of the content focused on Wiley not doing exactly what Jessica McCord wanted. His integrity and honor were attacked. His concern for all his clients put under scrutiny. His ability to do his job severely strangled by the accusations and wild speculations of an alleged murderer. The guy had not said a word in open court and he was already being branded some sort of failure who clocked in and out of his professional life as though the freedom of his clients didn’t matter.

By February 9, 2003, Jessica had apparently settled her differences with John Wiley. On that Sunday, Wiley released a statement to the Associated Press citing his uncertainty as to whether Jessica was going to take the stand in her own defense. With Jessica’s trial days away, Wiley got busy getting ready. Jessica would have to put her dream of freedom on the back burner for now. No matter what she said, whom she wrote or complained to, Jessica McCord was scheduled to face a jury of her peers on matters that could put her on death row.

Roger Brown would not comment on his case.

Both sides agreed, however, that Jeff McCord was not expected to testify against his wife. His trial was still on the docket for an April gavel slap.

According to an Associated Press article, John Wiley released a statement saying prosecutors lack[ed] conclusive evidence tying the couple to the murders, adding, We’re very hopeful we can show the jury how the state is unable to prove her guilty without a reasonable doubt. Wiley claimed to be confident of his client’s innocence.

If nothing else, Jessica had an advocate in John Wiley—someone willing to fight for her alleged virtue, even if she had previously attacked the man’s credibility.

57

Jessica’s trial began at 8:53 A.M., Tuesday, February 11, 2003. It was a partly cloudy day. The temperature was forty-one degrees. The wind, barely noticeable, blew gingerly south-to-southwest at 3.5 miles per hour. Room 375 of the Mel Bailey Criminal Justice Center in downtown Birmingham, on Richard Arrington, Jr. Boulevard North, buzzed with talk of this high-profile double-murder case. Three men and eleven women were chosen to sit and hear Jessica’s case. Jefferson County chief district attorney Roger Brown, who had been as quiet as a CIA agent, had given the press no indication where he was headed with his case, other than calling the murders of Alan and Terra “vicious and brutal.”

Brown had his boxing gloves on. He was ready for the opening bell. His witnesses lined up behind him.

The veteran prosecutor had a deep, serious vocal tone, but it simultaneously came across as clear, sincere and unlabored. In the courtroom was where Brown felt most comfortable. Early on, Brown had decided to try the case himself and not hand it off to one of his attorneys. He was there to represent Alan, Terra and their families. He was there to see that justice would be served. And he was also there to extend a hand of virtue and morality to the jury in the hopes that they understood the severity of these inhuman, savage murders. Lest no one forget, if you believe Brown’s version of his case, these murders were calculated, premeditated and carried out with an evil recourse that was rarely seen.

Brown first gave a narrative of what he called “that weekend.” Of course, he was referring to the evening when Alan and Terra were murdered. How much Alan had looked forward to giving his deposition and ending a battle with Jessica to see his kids. Brown built up the suspense of Alan and Terra walking into Jessica’s lawyer’s office and then leaving with smiles on their faces. He said Alan was confident the depositions had gone well—maybe even his way. Then Brown told the jury how Alan and Terra had stopped and ate at a nearby hot dog shop. How they drove to Hoover, probably discussing how great it was going to be to see the kids again, then slowly, as if they knew something was wrong, approached the McCord house in the rental car.

“So, Alan and Terra, who had never been allowed in this house before,” Brown said in a thunderous roar, “turned back down . . . the driveway, probably hand in hand, toward the fence that led to the back . . . completely unaware that, step-by-step, they walked closer to the brink of eternity in those last few minutes of their very too-short lives.”

The prosecutor waited a beat. Allowed the gravity of those words to sink in.

“How did we come to this?” Brown asked before embarking on what was a long, violent and emotionally tormented history between Alan and Jessica. All the fighting on Jessica’s part. All the visitations Alan never had with his kids. All the chaos “that woman over there”—pointing, raising his voice—had caused Alan Bates to endure throughout his adult life.

Something the media hadn’t discovered, a suggestion by Brown that was never made public, came out of the experienced prosecutor’s mouth as he approached the motive portion of his opening. He was talking about that particular lightbulb moment for Jessica.

“And while she was in jail [during that Christmas contempt charge in 2001] . . . she read the book The Murderers. Told her inmate friends there [in jail] she would do anything, anything, to keep her kids.”