14

Despite Howard Wells’s carefully scripted plans, word of Susan’s confession leaked almost immediately.

A few minutes past four P.M. on November 3, the Associated Press began reporting that Susan Smith had confessed to the murder of her sons, and that law-enforcement troops were heading to John D. Long Lake. Television stations nationwide broke into regularly scheduled programming to announce the latest developments. At WBCU in Union, news director William Christopher began advising county residents of the AP report, but he stressed repeatedly that the information was unconfirmed.

Phone calls from both the media and individual citizens flooded into the Union County Sheriff’s Office. Wells sent word to his staff to announce a press conference, scheduled for 5:00 P.M.

Even before then, a large crowd had been gathering for the previously scheduled appeal by the county’s ministers for the carjacker to release the Smith boys. More than 100 locals and journalists were already on hand.

In a short time, hundreds more would gather in the street as they learned the horrible fate of the children they had come to love.

*   *   *

Once Wells and his team set their plan in motion, scores of law-enforcement officials around the state began to get the word.

Just after three P.M., one of the first calls came into the sheriff’s command post that had been set up in a Union recreation center several days after the alleged carjacking. It was almost always saturated with SLED agents and deputy sheriffs, picking up new assignments, reporting in to their superiors, or just taking breaks, catching up on the latest developments in the case.

This time, the assignment was ominous. Mike Gault, a corporal with the South Carolina Department of Natural Resources, and SLED agent Spike McGraw got their orders: secure John D. Long Lake.

The two men did not ask questions. They took one of the wildlife department’s four-wheel drive trucks and headed north on Highway 49. On their way to the lake, they stopped at a friend’s house. The man had offered the use of his john-boat, a small aluminum craft, if law enforcement needed it. Gault and McCraw picked it up and loaded it in the back of the truck.

Meanwhile, wildlife dispatchers were rounding up four of the department’s nine divers, all of whom had searched for the Mazda in Union rivers, ponds, and lakes over the previous week.

As he headed to the lake, Mike Gault picked up his radio and called Steve Morrow, a conservation officer with the South Carolina Natural Resources Department and one of the state’s divers, whom he knew well. Morrow, he learned, had already received his orders to meet law enforcement at John D. Long Lake. Morrow told Gault he was on his way from Spartanburg.

“How long will it be until you get there?” Gault asked.

Morrow estimated he could be at the lake in about twenty minutes.

“You probably should hurry up,” Gault said.

Morrow said he would.

As Steve Morrow picked up speed toward Highway 49, the thirty-eight-year-old sergeant began to think that this was more than a routine search. When the dispatcher had given him his orders a short time earlier, he hadn’t realized that this might be the day they finally found some answers.

It was actually Morrow’s day off. That morning, he’d been at his home in Gaffney, about thirty miles northwest of Union, when his office phoned, telling him he needed to attend a preliminary hearing in Spartanburg. The hearing was on a case of a man Morrow had recently arrested for deer hunting at night. Morrow had changed clothes quickly and rushed to his pickup. When he got in, he had realized the truck was low on gas. He’d grabbed the keys to his dive van instead.

Morrow made it to the hearing in time to testify and was on his way home when the call came in from the dispatcher. At this point, he was thankful he’d taken the van. Now, he didn’t need to waste time stopping at home to pick up his wet suit and other dive equipment.

Morrow pressed the accelerator of the van and drove a bit faster. Last night, he’d watched Susan and David Smith on television, pleading for the return of their children. He’d seen the photo again of Michael and Alex. Little Michael, he kept thinking, was just a year younger than his own boy.

As he sped down the highway that day, Steve Morrow wondered what awaited him in the waters of John D. Long Lake.

*   *   *

When diver Curtis Jackson got his call to report to the lake he was en route to Blacksburg from his home in Gaffney. The wildlife department had had reports of deer hunters using bait to lure the animals into a favorable position, violating South Carolina law. Jackson’s assignment was to stop them.

But when the call came in, the dispatcher didn’t mince words.

“Get to Union,” he said. “Don’t talk to nobody, don’t use your cellular phone. Just go. They’ve got something.”

Jackson quickly returned to his home to pick up some rope then headed for John D. Long Lake. He was among the first divers to arrive there. Even the sheriff had not yet appeared.

Mike Gault filled Jackson in on the details. By the time he was done, Sheriff Howard Wells and his team of investigators were on the scene.

Wells told Jackson that reporters would likely be arriving soon and it was going to be difficult to keep them out. He needed Jackson to accomplish three things: locate the car, determine whether the bodies of the children were, indeed, inside, and lastly, mark the site with an anchor.

He revealed to the young diver what Susan had told him about the car. It rolled in; it had not been driven in fast, as they had originally assumed when they first considered the possibility that the Mazda was at the bottom of the lake.

Curtis Jackson felt the pressure of his grave assignment. He was one of the newer members of the wildlife team; he’d joined the department four years earlier. Since then he’d dived for cars, bodies, and weapons, but never in a case as high profile and emotionally charged as this one.

Sheriff Wells stepped back while Jackson and Mike Gault stood on the banks of the lake and used a compass to note the direction in which the boat ramp leads to the water. Once the men were submerged in the dark waters they would need to organize their search toward that heading. The men pushed the johnboat into the water and began to paddle. As they made their way out, Steve Morrow pulled up in his van. He took one look at Howard Wells and knew that they weren’t only looking for a car, they were searching for the missing children.

Morrow had known Wells for years. Back when Wells was a conservation officer, the two had worked on many cases together. Like Wells, Morrow was a Union native. He’d even graduated in the same high school class as Wanda Wells.

Standing beside his old friend, Steve Morrow watched as Curtis Jackson lowered himself out of the johnboat and into the cold, murky water of John D. Long Lake. Like the other solemn-faced lawmen lining the shore, he stood grim and silent as they waited for events to unfold.

They knew it might take a while. Divers traditionally do not come up unless they have either found what they were looking for, or are running out of air. Jackson had enough oxygen for at least an hour. Sheriff Wells had advised Jackson to look toward the right of what they believed would be the car’s likely trajectory off the boat ramp. But after fruitlessly searching that area, Jackson surfaced and swam over to the johnboat.

From the shore, the men could see Gault and Jackson talking. Gault, in the boat, told the diver some more of the details of what Susan Smith had told the sheriff. Armed with new information, Jackson went back down. This time it took him just six minutes to find the car.

He could make out some colors but little else. His hand touched the car’s underside. He was not surprised to find that the car had overturned. He knew that as an object sinks, the heaviest part goes first. In the case of the Mazda, the weight of the engine caused it to flip over, its roof settling at the bottom.

But his assignment was not complete. Jackson swam to the window and tried to peer inside. He raised his dive light, pressing it against the glass, but still, he saw only blackness. He cursed the weak battery in his light; he could see only about eight inches in front of him.

Curtis Jackson surfaced again at five P.M. When Sheriff Wells and the others saw him emerge from the water, they knew he’d found something. He waited impatiently as Mike Gault dropped a marker to Jackson, who went down again and attached it to the car. On the surface, a plastic milk jug floated about 100 feet out into John D. Long Lake, a bleak marker of the final resting place of Michael and Alex Smith. Everyone had been in such a hurry to get the search underway, they hadn’t had time to locate a traditional anchor. The makeshift one, Jackson figured, would have to do. He’d rigged it up as he drove to the lake that day.

Jackson swam to the shore. Wells met him at the water’s edge.

“Did you see them in there?” he asked.

Jackson shook his head. “The light wasn’t bright enough,” he explained. “The battery is fixing to go and it wasn’t going to go through glass.”

Wells nodded. He understood, but he still needed his answer.

Jackson didn’t go back down. By now, Steve Morrow and Francis Mitchum from Somerville were on hand. Both Morrow and Mitchum were sergeants and Jackson was only a corporal. He would be left behind.

The new divers didn’t bother with the john-boat. They waded into the water and swam to the marker. With their more sophisticated dive lights, the men were able to see inside the Mazda.

When they came up, they were crying.

When Sheriff Wells got the confirmation he needed he moved quickly from the lakeshore to the waiting SLED helicopter. It lifted off and headed directly south, landing less than five minutes later on the front lawn of a young couple who lived two doors away from the Russells on Heathwood Road.

By the time Howard Wells entered the Russell home the family had already heard the AP report that Susan had confessed to killing the children. They were braced for the worst. When Sheriff Russell walked through the front door of the Russell home, his expression told them all they needed to know. David Smith, who at twenty-four had lost his precious children, began to scream and run wildly around the room in total anguish.

*   *   *

Sheriff Wells stayed about twenty minutes at the Russell home. As he always did, the lawman kept his emotions in check. Somehow, he had to get through the next few hours.

He told the sobbing family members parts of what Susan had said in her confession, and how they had confirmed her account of driving the Mazda, with the two little boys strapped inside, into John D. Long lake. He informed them that she had been arrested and charged with two counts of murder. A bail hearing would be arranged for the following day at the Union County Courthouse.

Before he left, Sheriff Wells told the family that he had arranged a press conference. In a few minutes, he would announce to the world the deaths of Michael and Alex Smith, and the arrest of their mother.

Wells sprinted back to the helicopter. By now, several of the Russells’ neighbors had gathered on their front lawn, their faces drawn with dread. They heard the whirling sounds of the SLED helicopter, seen the devastating report on television. Now, they looked at Sheriff Howard Wells and they knew it was true.

The sheriff put out his hand and one of the neighbors clasped it, giving it a squeeze.

“I’m sorry for landing in your yard,” Howard Wells said quietly.

He got into the helicopter. A minute later, he was gone.

*   *   *

Margaret Frierson and Charlotte Foster were on Interstate 26, just outside of Columbia, when their mobile phone rang. Both women were startled. The phone worked only sporadically—in Union it never seemed to work at all—and besides they almost never received calls on the mobile, they just made them.

On the line was Julie Cartwright, Coordinator of Public Affairs for the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children in Washington, D.C. Cartwright had just received a call from a reporter with a stunning question.

“Margaret, we’ve gotten information that Susan Smith has confessed and her children are dead,” Cartwright said bluntly. “Can you confirm or deny?”

Margaret swallowed hard. She and Charlotte had been chatting nonstop in the car ever since they left the Russells’ home less than an hour earlier. They hadn’t bothered to turn on the radio. Margaret could hardly believe what she was hearing.

“At this point, I can’t do either,” she told Cartwright, slowly. “I will do that as soon as I can.”

She explained that she was on the interstate in her car, but that they would stop as soon as possible and get to a phone to call SLED. She didn’t want to use the mobile phone for a call like this.

The women thought about stopping at a friend’s home who lived nearby, but decided to simply head in to the Adam Walsh Center offices. They needed privacy to try to verify the latest developments.

Within a few minutes, they had pulled into a parking space and unlocked the door of their modest first-floor office in downtown Columbia. Charlotte snapped on the television as Margaret dialed the number for the SLED office. When she finally reached an official there, he was reluctant to confirm the report. The sheriff would be making his announcement very soon, he told her.

Margaret didn’t push. She thanked the agent and hung up.

Like everyone else, they waited.

*   *   *

When Shirley McCloud and a friend returned home from work on the evening of November 3, Highway 49 was blocked off, with yellow police tape strung along the sides for several hundred yards. A deputy sheriff stood in the McCloud’s driveway, motioning to cars to continue passing. Shirley’s friend, who had given her a ride to and from work that day, pulled in beside the deputy.

“Who are you?” the cop asked brusquely.

“I live here,” Shirley said.

“Well, go on in.”

“What’s going on?”

The cop did not answer.

Rick McCloud and his son had both arrived home an hour earlier, at about 4:30. Since then, father and son had joined dozens of onlookers at the bottom of the road, across from the entrance to John D. Long Lake.

Shirley stepped out of her friend’s van and looked up, startled. Her aunt was standing on the front porch. The older woman had been driving home from work when she heard the AP report of Susan’s confession on the radio. She had noticed that her niece’s car wasn’t in the driveway, and decided to wait for her.

As Shirley walked up the path, her aunt gave her the news.

“Shirley, they say that Susan has confessed,” she said.

Shirley McCloud stopped cold. She followed her aunt into the house, and abruptly slammed the front door.

“Confessed to what?” she barked. “She hasn’t done anything.”

Shirley’s aunt touched her sleeve and moved her aside.

“Shirley, open the door so I can tell Kathy,” she said.

Shirley’s friend Kathy stood awkwardly on the porch. Shirley’s aunt invited her in.

Inside, Shirley McCloud was livid.

“She hasn’t done anything,” she repeated. “This is just a rumor. They’re just back down there doing that lake again to find nothing.”

“Shirley,” her aunt continued, “I am just telling you what the TV is saying. The Associated Press says that Susan Smith has confessed to killing her children.”

“I don’t care,” her niece shot back. “Until I hear Sheriff Wells say that she has confessed I do not believe it. This woman did not kill her children.”

“Okay,” her aunt said. “We’ll wait.”

The TV was already on. It showed the scene at the courthouse, with the crowd waiting for Sheriff Wells.

Shirley’s husband came in, slightly out of breath. Once he’d seen Kathy’s van pull up he’d sprinted back to the house. Rick Jr. remained at the roadside.

“Rick, she didn’t do it,” Shirley said immediately.

“No,” Rick said, slowly. “I can’t believe it either.”

But Rick McCloud’s eyes said something else. He now suspected that they had been wrong, very wrong about Susan Vaughan Smith.

“Rick,” Shirley repeated, “she did not do it. She did not.”

This time, Rick just shook his head. If the news was bad, he knew his wife was going to take it very, very hard.

*   *   *

Eight miles away, the SLED helicopter had made the short trip from the Russells’ and was landing at a ballfield around the corner from the sheriff’s office. SLED had been using the field as a helicopter pad for the past nine days.

When Howard Wells walked into the parking lot of city hall at 6:45 P.M. the blaze of lights and cameras was nearly blinding. Hundreds of townspeople waited anxiously to hear what he had to say. The ministers, too, were all on hand. They had gotten word not long before that there was no longer any need for them to appeal to the carjacker.

While the scene from the city hall played on all the major networks, across the street at the bank, Wanda Wells caught her breath. She and six of her co-workers had heard about the press conference on WBCU and had been waiting since five P.M. They could hear the commotion just outside the door on Main Street as satellite trucks passed by and people called out to each other in the street.

As Sheriff Wells prepared to speak to millions of Americans that night, Wanda Wells took one look at the man she married seventeen years earlier and knew that he would say: the worst had occurred.