CHAPTER 1
Steve Cochran drove as fast as he could. It was near 1:40 A.M., Saturday, April 18, 1998. John Paul Jones Hospital, just off Route 28 in Camden, Alabama, was about a twenty-minute drive from Steel Bridge Road, in Shawnee, Wilcox County. That was the location from where Steve and his passenger had taken off. Steve had no idea yet what had happened to his friend. He’d only heard bits and pieces of the incredibly violent situation.
It had been near midnight when Steve had taken a call from another friend, Jimmy Williams. In a calm manner, devoid of any emotion, Jimmy had said, “Hey . . . someone is here and she’s been shot while helping a stranded motorist. I need you to come and pick her up and take to her to the hospital.”
Something bad had transpired, Steve was fully aware.
The emergency room entrance to John Paul Jones Hospital, where Anne was treated after being shot in the back. (Photo courtesy of Anne Bridges Johnson)
Jimmy had given Steve no other details at the time.
“It’s going to be okay,” Steve said as he drove, though he probably did not believe what he was saying. “Just hold on. It’ll be okay. We are almost there. Stay with me.”
The pain was like a thousand needles simultaneously stabbing into her back. Anne Bridges had a sixteen-year-old son at home—the one thought was keeping her from entirely giving up. She had also lost a child, but this was unlike any pain Anne had ever experienced in her forty-one years. The burning and throbbing were excruciating. By now, Anne’s wounds had bled so much, the back of the T-shirt she had been given to wear by her attacker was saturated and sticking to her skin. This made the very idea of moving an agonizing proposition.
Steve liked Anne—and also Jimmy, for that matter. He hadn’t asked any questions when Jimmy called out of the blue, in the middle of the night. He’d hopped into his vehicle and taken off. By the time he’d arrived at Jimmy’s Steel Bridge Road home, Anne was fading in and out, talking slowly, having trouble breath-ing. Here they were now, approaching the intersection closest to the hospital. Steve had driven through red lights and stop signs, knowing only that Anne needed medical attention quick, or she was going to die.
Anne Johnson’s son has always been the joy of her life. Here they are around the time Anne was attacked. (Photo courtesy of Tom Johnson)
“Hang on, Anne . . . hang on. We’re almost there.”
Steve sped around the corner, made it to 317 McWilliams Avenue. He spied the hospital building in front of him, looked for the ER entrance sign, headed that way.
“We’re in the parking lot, Anne. Hang in there.”
Anne was dozing, in and out of it.
Steve screeched the tires to a halt in front of the emergency room doors.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, hopping out of the car, running toward the ER entrance.
Anne fought the intense pain, wincing, trying to stay awake, taking deep breaths. Her head bobbed back and forth, her breathing now shallow, labored, becoming slower.
Steve ran to the ER entrance. Looked left. Right. Then inside the entryway.
There it was.
He rushed back to the car with the wheelchair, opened the passenger-side door, and helped Anne into the chair.
“Easy now, honey . . .”
Just that subtle move from the car seat to the wheelchair ratcheted up the pain ten notches. Anne’s bloody T-shirt stuck to the back of the car seat. When she got up, it released like Velcro, snapped, and slapped her back, stinging those wounds yet again.
“I don’t want you coming in with me,” Anne said.
“What are you talking about?”
“You need to leave, Steve.” Anne struggled to get the words out. Her voice cracking, tired. “You don’t need to be involved in this.”
Steve thought about what Anne said. He didn’t want to leave his friend. However, he didn’t want to answer questions from law enforcement, either. In addition, Steve knew that if Jimmy was somehow involved in what had happened to Anne, maybe it was best he scoot out of there before people started asking questions.
“My main thing was that I could hardly breathe,” Anne explained later, recalling the moment Steve dropped her off at the ER.
Both of my lungs, come to find out, were collapsed. They were filling with blood. My diaphragm had been damaged—but of course we did not know any of this at the time.
Back at the house, near the time Steve showed up to get Anne some help, Jimmy had told him: “You take her to Montgomery Hospital. You understand me?”
Montgomery, Alabama, had three hospitals, all of which were about a ninety-minute drive from Jimmy’s Steel Bridge Road home, where Anne had been attacked and injured.
Jimmy thought that if I was taken to Montgomery that none of this—what had happened back at his house—would come out or come back to him. He was being stupid. If I survived, of course it would all come out. I knew who hurt me. I knew what happened.
Inside the car, in Jimmy’s driveway, as Anne and Steve prepared to leave, Anne had said, “Take me to the nearest hospital, Steve. Doesn’t matter what Jimmy wants or what he says. I need help now.”
And Steve, who’s a good man, I call him my “Good Samaritan,” took one look at me while we sat there in his car and he could tell it was bad, really, really bad—that I needed medical attention immediately.
Back at the entrance doors into the ER, Anne struggled to say, “Steve . . .” Her words were raspy and gurgled. “Steve . . . please . . . leave.... Go now. I do not want you involved in this. I appreciate your help.”
I was so thankful for what he had done—driving over to Jimmy’s in the middle of the night and picking me up. I could have died there at Jimmy’s. But Steve came. He came and he helped. I did not want to burden Steve and his life. One of my worst fears, or maybe my greatest disappointments in myself, is to cause people problems while doing things for me.
Steve took a look at Anne. “Are you sure you want me to leave?”
“Yes, Steve. Now get going.”
Steve pushed Anne up to an area by the entrance, next to a buzzer to push for help. As he did that, several nurses, who had seen them pull up and suspected something was going on, walked toward the entryway.
“Take care of yourself, Anne,” Steve said. He ran back to his car. Hopped in. Took off.
Anne pressed the button.
A nurse was already on her way out the door.
“They had seen us pull into the parking lot, come to find out later,” Anne recalled. “And they kind of knew there was something fishy about the whole thing.”
“Ma’am . . . ma’am . . . what is going on?” the nurse asked. “Are you okay?”
“I’m hurt . . . badly.... I cannot breathe.”
Had Anne been stabbed? Shot? Beaten? Blood was all over her. She was barely conscious. Barely able to string a sentence together. Barely able to take breaths and exhale. She shivered and shook. A cold sweat beaded up on her skin, now white as chalk, pasty, turning gray.
The nurse ran to Anne, took the wheelchair by the grips, and rolled her into the ER.