The Murderers, by W.E.B. Griffin, is a fictional exploration of corruption inside law enforcement. The plot involves the wife of a Philadelphia cop, who leaves her husband for another cop, after reporting his “dirty” tactics. The book is a Lifetime Television version of a team of murderers you’d least likely expect: cops. Roger Brown’s aim was to point out the fact that Jessica McCord was talking about how much better her life would be if Alan was gone, and also reading books for ideas on how to get away with murder.

“So she began to hatch this plot while in the Shelby County Jail,” Brown said, “because she not only was going to make his life miserable, she was going to end it! ‘Things would be a lot better if he was just dead,’ she said [to an inmate].”

Kaboom . . . there it was: the meat and potatoes of Brown’s case.

From that point on, Brown went through the murder, step-by-step. Then the cleanup. The coverup. The lies Jessica and Jeff told and the missteps they took as they tried explaining their way out of what the evidence had actually pointed to.

Brown’s opening was short, only about fifteen minutes. Brown was all about getting to the heart of the matter—and here, in this case, Brown was certain that the evidence and his list of witnesses would speak to that. He didn’t need to add anything to the truth. From Brown’s point of view, the more sugarcoating you frosted on the facts, the less impact they would ultimately have.

John Wiley was a bit more reserved. He kept his opening even shorter, simply standing and explaining to the jury that his client would be freed by that evidence Brown had so haphazardly tossed around.

“Now, look here,” Wiley said, standing. “This is the time of the trial when the lawyers stand up and say what they expect the evidence to be. What lawyers say in a trial is not evidence, and Judge Vinson will tell you that later on.”

Wiley said that there would be a “great lack of evidence of Ms. McCord’s guilt in this case.” He went through what he thought was Brown’s weakest points: no murder weapon, no true motive, no smoking gun pointing to his client.

Many squinted their eyes at some of what the lawyer said: No motive? Was he talking about the same case?

“Under the law, Ms. McCord is presumed to be not guilty, and that is evidence in this case and must be considered by you along with all of the other evidence in this case.”

That all sounded good. But Roger Brown and his investigators, the cops who had shown up in solidarity with the Bates and Klugh families, knew that what Wiley was suggesting was absolutely absurd. The accused were judged on the way they acted in court. The things they said. Their facial expressions. Whether they testified, or chose not to testify. Their lack of remorse. The way they whispered to their attorneys. Smiled with family and friends. And, perhaps most important of all, hearsay and the media. It didn’t matter what a lawyer stood and said, Wiley was right about that. What mattered more than anything—when push came to shove—was how a juror felt about a witness, a piece of evidence, a suggestion by an attorney. As unbalanced and unfair as this might sound, a defendant was judged the moment she sat down—maybe even before—whether she committed the crime or not.

Prisons, after all, are not only full of guilty people.

Wiley used the word “doubt” in his final few sentences three times, throwing it out there, hoping the jury would grab hold of any part of it.

“The evidence and the lack of evidence,” Wiley closed, “goes in concert with the presumption of innocence.”

Brown called Philip Bates. Alan’s father talked about raising his children, moving the family, and that night he and Joan went through hell realizing that Alan and Terra, never late or no-shows, had disappeared. He told the jury how he called rental car agencies and that Avis told him to phone the GBI.

And that was when his heart sank. “I knew.”

Wiley kept Philip focused on the time frame of that night, which would come up again and again during this trial. Philip was clear—Alan and Terra were supposed to pick the kids up at 6:00 P.M. and start heading to Georgia immediately.

Next witness.

Tom Klugh gave the jury memories of his daughter, accentuating the high note of how much she and Alan had loved each other. Then he talked about buying that new cell phone, calling his daughter and leaving Terra a voice mail she never heard.

“Thank you, Tom,” Brown said. “I believe that’s all I have.”

John Wiley did not stand. “No questions, Your Honor.”

Tom Klugh walked out of the courtroom, head bowed, shoulders slumped.

Brown had a representative from Avis prove to the jury that Alan had indeed rented the car his body was found in.

As Brown rolled his eyes, Wiley asked the Avis rep questions that seemed to be ridiculously unimportant. That witness was off the stand within fifteen minutes.

After a lunch break Alan’s longtime attorney, Frank Head, sat. At first, Head went through the extended explanation of the child custody matter at the center of the feud Jessica seemed to have with Alan. Head was clear and concise with his answers. There was no one in the room who knew the story of Jessica versus Alan better than Frank Head. He was obviously broken up by the deaths of Alan and Terra, unable to understand that a woman who did not want her ex-husband to see his children would go to such deadly lengths.

Written on Head’s face, and on the face of just about every witness Brown presented during this opening day, was the same, unanswerable question: why?

These murders—perhaps more than others—seemed too darn senseless.

As Head talked his way through the afternoon under Brown’s direct examination, one theme became clear: Jessica McCord had done everything in her power to keep the children away from Alan Bates. But the true denouement to that story was that she had done it all for no apparent reason. Even when the court demanded she allow the children to see their father, Jessica disappeared, wouldn’t allow it. Took down her mailbox. Didn’t answer her phone. Asked friends and family to lie for her. Hid at the homes of those same people. She took the kids out of school. Became violent and threatened Alan repeatedly. The truth was there—the evidence—in the letters Head had written to Jessica and her attorneys. In the testimonials Alan had given. In the transcripts of the days in court Jessica refused to show up for. It was all there. In. Fact. Perfectly laid out for anyone to sit down and see. The truth—Frank Head made clear to Jessica’s jury—was undeniable.

Jessica sat with a stoic bearing about her, her demeanor mostly unchanged, as each witness came in and put another nail in the door to her freedom. She could do nothing about any of it. She wore glasses and appeared skinnier than normal. The obvious wear and tear of life in prison, not seeing her newborn, and preparing for trial, had worn her down.

What became a hot-button issue as Frank Head answered questions—both on direct and cross-examination—was that Head had brought out the fact that Jessica McCord had lied so much to so many different people, it was impossible to trust anything she said. The woman had even lied about things she didn’t need to, like the duration of a supposed separation she and Jeff had endured during the fall of 2001.

There just seemed to be no end to the lies she told.