I’ve read it maybe a hundred times before: Mr. Phelps, I’m innocent. I didn’t do it. You have to help me. I get letters from the convicted (and their friends and family members) with those exact words (I’ll get even more once this book is published). I get e-mails from loved ones writing on behalf of those they believe were wrongly convicted.
In those cases where I looked into a defendant claiming innocence, as I continued investigating the case, the claim was repeatedly and quickly disproven by the evidence. When I looked at this case early on, in fact, and had heard that Bobbi (who did not want to talk to me until months after I began) had made this same claim, I thought, Yeah, right . . . here we go again.
Yet, as I dug through the case, I was overwhelmed by the lack of evidence that convicted Bobbi. Jennifer Jones is all that convicted this woman? I asked myself time and again. Bobbi Jo’s own statements, in which she clearly lied and admitted as much later on, were the only corroborating pieces of evidence against her? Bobbi telling her grandmother that she killed Bob, after Jen said she killed Bob, is enough to convict a woman of murder and sentence her to fifty years?
Bobbi Jo Smith, if nothing else, was grossly—grossly—overcharged.
I was told by Mike Burns that the law is different in Texas. Somebody murders someone in your presence and you somehow knew about it beforehand and provided the means (he was talking about his Bobbi Jo theory), you’re just as guilty. You will be convicted and sentenced in the same way as the person who pulled the trigger.
Looking at this case, even from Burns’s perspective, I was amazed that this sort of failure of justice could take place in the United States. And I can only guess that had Bobbi the means to hire herself a hotshot, high-profile attorney, she would have walked out of that courtroom, or been able to plead her case to a far lesser charge and sentence.
From there, readers, you’d have to ask yourself: How in the hell did those first statements by the girls ever become part of the record? And why would a jury cherry-pick certain pieces of a statement, believe them as fact, but not believe other parts of the same statements? Also, why didn’t Bobbi’s lawyer argue to have the statements tossed out of her trial?
In a recent New York Court of Appeals ruling, four judges ordered a new trial for a woman “facing murder and assault charges,” finding that her lawyer “should have moved to suppress statements she made to police during a lengthy interrogation.” In a four-to-one decision, the Appellate Division, Third Judicial Department, found that the defendant’s admission that she had helped her husband plan to kill two people turned out to be “the crucial evidence” in her case and should have been challenged by her lawyer. Remember, that one sentence in the second statement by Bobbi, according to Mike Burns, is the reason why the jury had to convict her.
Look, I realize New York and Texas have vastly different ways (the most respectable word I can come up with here) of interpreting the law and how each of their courts (liberal vs. conservative) should be run. But again, all of this flies in the face of simple common sense and—at the very least—reasonable doubt.
Even Jen’s sister believed this. Jen’s story of what happened “kept changing,” Audrey explained during a phone call. “She told me that she went inside [Bob’s house] and they had both decided to go back over there.... They broke into the house. Bob wasn’t there. They waited until Bob got back. She [Jen] had [the gun] behind her back in her pants. She told Bob that they decided that they wanted to move back in and that she wanted to have sex with him. So she took Bob to the bedroom, he got undressed, and she told him to put something over his head so she could make believe it was Bobbi Jo. And she shot him.” Audrey said Jen never clarified if she was “doing him at the time” she murdered him, or that she “was fixin’ to do him. But I know he was lying on the bed naked.”
Not once did Audrey ever tell me that Jen said Bobbi coerced her into committing this crime, gave her the gun, or was with her. Audrey, in fact, gave the indication that Jen did it all on her own.
The first time Jen told Audrey about the murder: “She told me that she was the only one that shot him and that she freaked out. Then she changed it up the second time. All the other stuff was the same. But that she had shot him twice, got off of him, and then Bobbi Jo came into the room, picked up the gun off the floor, and that Bob was shaking and asking them for help.... So that after [Jen] shot him, [Jen] went over there and choked him and then he died.”
There were no bruises on Bob Dow’s neck that would indicate strangulation. This was simply more of Jen telling erroneous lies to either make herself look more badass gangsta, or because lying for Jen was just another one of her many emotions—something she did, I believe, without thinking, at will.
I asked Bobbi why she believed Jen killed Bob. If Bobbi was to be believed, then Jen committed this crime for her own reasons, on her own.
“I don’t know . . . why would anyone do this? If I had to say, I’d say she did it for Kathy,” Bobbi said. “Kathy wanted to go back to the house and rob Robert as soon as [we] went over there [to the Spanish Trace apartment]. They were all packed and ready to run when we got there. . . .”
What’s clear to me was that Bobbi took the brunt and burden of Jen’s entire life of loss, emotional pain, and dysfunction. As someone who has studied for his profession the minds of female murderers, I can see clearly that as Jen grew, she developed what I’ll coin as a “soft conscience”—she was systematically able to commit crimes, lie to those she loved, sleep around, do drugs, drink excessively, even change her sexuality to feel accepted and loved, and it all became easier for her as time went on. She began to feel normal while involved in abnormal behaviors. She was comforted by her own psychological fall. Lying became a way for Jen to feel right.
If Jen’s journal was read in its entirety, a clear picture would emerge of a girl hardened by her surroundings, growing increasingly angrier by the day, nurturing a volcanic rage, which would need to be released at some point. Jen was a pressure cooker. She was a woman who, when the right moment came around, would feel the need to deal with her anger issues in a violent manner. That was Jennifer Jones. The end result and facts of her life support it.
In one of her last letters, Bobbi made a valid point when she wrote, I came into this with you by my own choice. I’ve kept my mouth and my mind closed down and shut out—and at times all of this overwhelms me. It makes me remember things I hid deep down. . . . Regardless what happens, I know I’ve been able to tell the truth.
She thanked me for that opportunity.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I WOULD LIKE to thank the usual suspects (you know who you are). It gets kind of redundant naming the same list of people at the end of every book. So I will just say here that my family and friends, colleagues, and those working for me are the foundation of what I do, and I could not continue my work without any one of them. When it comes to my readers, moreover, I am always at a loss for words when trying to address all of you and express my gratitude to your continued support. You are the most important part of my work.
I am also profoundly grateful to each one of my Dark Minds, Investigation Discovery viewers. Thank you for allowing me to do what I love.
I am honored and humbled by both my readers and viewers and their dedication and willingness to spend the time they do with me.
It feels weird for me to thank Bobbi Jo, and there’s really no reason to. Moreover, she wouldn’t want me to thank her. We had a love/hate relationship. Bobbi understands she has issues that need dealing with and she is working toward the goal of getting the help she needs. I greatly respect that. Sobriety is a wonderful thing, a gift. In 2013, I celebrate eighteen years of sobriety myself.
I do want to thank Kathy Jones, Tamey Hurley, and Audrey Sawyer for opening up to me. Tamey, especially, was brutally honest, as was Kathy Jones. Tamey shared many personal bits of her life, which I chose not to include in this book. Tamey is a tortured soul, like her daughter. They need time to reconcile. Tim
e to love again. I’m told they are beginning anew.
For Kathy and Audrey, I wish them the best. There is love in their hearts. Jennifer should have trusted Audrey more.
There was one person, Shauntá Weston, a friend of Bobbi’s, who initiated a dialogue with me. Miss Weston was very helpful. She believes in Bobbi. Thank you, Shauntá, for your help.
Brian Boetz was helpful in responding to my queries in a timely fashion and I thank him for that. Mike Burns, mostly, as well. Boetz and Burns were sincere in their responses to me. I appreciate that. Both believe in justice and that they did the right thing here—and who says they didn’t.
I would not have heard of this story or written this book if it had not been for my good friend Chip Selby. A freelance television producer by day, Chip told me about this story, took some photos, and was a great source early on. I want to extend a big thanks to Chip for turning me on to this great true-crime tale. And perhaps, most important, M2 Pictures researcher Joanne Taylor, who originally found this story. This one hovered under everyone’s radar, but Joanne plucked it out. For that, I am thankful to her.
I would like to extend my sincere appreciation to everyone at Investigation Discovery and Beyond Productions involved in making Dark Minds the best (nonfiction) crime show on television: Andrew “Fazz” Farrell, Alex Barry, Colette “Coco” Sandstedt, John Mavety, Peter Heap, Mark Middis, Toby Prior, Peter Coleman, Derek Ichilcik, Jared “Jars” Transfield, Jo Telfer, Claire Westerman, Milena Gozzo, Cameron Power, Katie Ryerson, Inneke Smit, Pele Hehea, Jeremy Peek, Jeremy Adair, Geri Berman, Nadine Terens, Samantha Hertz, Lale Teoman, Hayden Anderson, Savino (from Onyx Sound Lab in Manchester, CT), David O’Brien, Ra-ey Saleh, Nathan Brand, Rebecca Clare, Anthony Toy, Mark Wheeler, Mandy Chapman, Jenny O’shea, Jen Longhurst, Anita Bezjak, Geoff Fitzpatrick, John Luscombe, Debbie Gottschalk, Eugenie Vink, Sucheta Sachdev, Sara Kozak, Kevin Bennett, Jane Latman, and Henry Schleiff.
As you can see, it takes an army to make a television show.
I also need to extend my deepest gratitude to the families of my Dark Minds road crew, as well as my own, for allowing us to take the time we need on the road to shoot Dark Minds. It’s a lot of time away from home and I realize the sacrifice all of you make on my behalf, especially the children: India, Ivo and April—and, of course, our spouses, Bates and Regina.
Cara at Inspirations—thanks.
Lastly, my publisher, Laurie Parkin, and the entire team at Kensington Publishing Corp., all of whom continue to believe in me and make great things possible. I want to extend a big, huge thanks to all of you. Likewise, I need to thank Kensington CEO Steve Zacharius, editorial director Audrey LeFehr, and Karen Auerbach, publicity director. My longtime editor, Michaela Hamilton, has been an instrumental part of my career for well over a decade now, and also a great friend. We’ve done nearly twenty books together and Michaela’s passion for what I do continues to grow with each book. I am indebted and thankful, not to mention amazed by, Michaela’s desire to see me succeed. There is a ton of work that goes on behind the scenes of each book, and I want to point out to the Kensington team that I realize how hard you all work on my behalf—and I’m very grateful for that.
Keep reading to enjoy an exclusive preview of M. William Phelps’s next true-crime book!
Obsessed
Coming from Pinnacle Books in 2014
CHAPTER 1
SUSAN RAYMUNDO WAS used to her daughter calling her Florida winter home at least twice a day. Anna Lisa was good that way. She liked to stay in touch with her parents, even if it was just to say hello.
“She was a very thoughtful daughter,” Anna’s father, Renato, later said. “She was a perfect daughter . . . an excellent human being.”
Smart too: Anna Lisa held degrees from Harvard and Columbia.
On November 8, 2002, Susan, a retired pediatrician, was at a local hospital near her Florida home with her mother, who was undergoing a routine procedure. When she returned to the house, Susan noticed the light on the answering machine blinking.
Tossing her keys on the counter, putting her handbag down, Susan hit the button and listened. She knew who it was.
Anna . . .
“Hi, Mom and Dad. I just want you to know what’s going on. I know you’re busy with Grandma, but I’ll talk to you sometime.”
It was 10:34 A.M., Susan noticed, when the message came in.
After she got herself situated, Susan called Anna Lisa back. The line rang several times, but there was no answer.
It was odd, Susan supposed, because her daughter worked from home. She was there all the time, especially during the day, during the week. Susan and her husband had purchased the Connecticut condo for Anna Lisa, closing the deal on March 15, 2000.
I’ll try again later, Susan told herself, perhaps sensing—if only in a subtle, mother’s intuition way—that something was amiss.
CHAPTER 2
THE WOMAN SOUNDED FRANTIC. She was in a terrible hurry. Inhaling and exhaling heavily, as if out of breath. Yet, strangely enough, she cleared her throat before speaking for the first time.
“Yes, hello,” she said after the Stamford, Connecticut, 911 police dispatcher beckoned the caller to speak up. “Yes . . . the guy . . . the . . . He attacked my neighbor.”
“You mean someone attacked your neighbor?” dispatch asked as the caller blew two deeply dramatic breaths into the phone receiver: Whoosh, whoosh.
“Yes, yes . . . ,” the caller said sheepishly.
“When did this happen?” dispatch asked.
It sounded as if the caller said: “I saw a guy go into the apartment at One-Two-Six Harbor View. . . .”
Dispatch noted the address. Then: “One twenty-six Harbor View—”
But the caller corrected her angrily, yelling over the dispatcher’s voice: “One twenty-three Harbor View!”
“Okay,” dispatch said. “Don’t yell, because I cannot understand you.”
Almost in tears now, the seemingly frantic caller spoke over dispatch: “One twenty-three Harbor View.”
“Listen to me . . . one-two-three Harbor View . . . what is your friend’s name?”
“I don’t know her name, but she’s my neighbor and she lives in apartment one-oh-five.”
“She lives in apartment one-oh-five?”
“Right! And the guy was in there, and he . . .”
“He what?”
“He attacked her.”
“Okay, can you tell me what the guy looks like?”
“I just don’t know. I heard yelling. I heard yelling.”
There was a clicking sound next.
“Hello?” dispatch said. “Hello? Hello?”
The line was dead. The call, in its entirety, lasted about one minute, thirty seconds.
He had just finished eating lunch. It was near 12:30 in the afternoon, November 8, 2002, a Friday. The weather was rather mild for this time of the year near the Connecticut shoreline, the temperature ranging from 46 to 57 degrees Fahrenheit. The air was dry and sharp; a slight breeze of winds, around six miles per hour, rolled off the Atlantic Ocean. The sun was bright. There was a waxing crescent moon (7/8 full) out, nearly visible in the luminous blue skies. By all accounts, a picture-perfect late fall day in one of Connecticut’s more prominent, seaside communities.
The cop drove a marked police car. He was dressed in full uniform. The area that twenty-two-year-veteran officer David Sileo patrolled was indeed exclusive. Officers called it “District Three.” Stamford had seen a sharp economic resurgence, its downtown area revitalized and energized with excitement and shoppers and business. The bubble all around them might have been bursting, but Stamford was hopping. This region where Sileo was headed was known to locals as “Cove/Shippan,” located just south of Interstate 95, in between Cummings Park and Cove Island Park.
Yachts. Fishing and houseboats. Money, status, and exclusivity.
Sitting in an inlet, a cove, southwest of West Beach, just across the waterway from Dyke Park, was 123
Harbor Drive. People walked dogs down here. Docked their massive sailboats and Bayliners and Sea Rays and cruise liners. Men and women jogged in their expensive sweat suits, earbuds booming, minding their own business. Families had picnics and tossed Frisbees. They lay out in the sun. Stamford, Connecticut, by and large, is a wealthy region of this small state of 3,500,000 residents; it is the sister to the more select, more expensive Greenwich. By big-city standards, Stamford boasts a small population of about 120,000. Median income holds steady at $75,000. Taxes are high. The streets are clean. Crime rates in certain areas are low. Housing prices not too shabby. Stamford is often named one of the top ten places to live in the country.
Officer Sileo was dispatched to 123 Harbor View Drive, unit 105, specifically, after a rather strange 911 call had come in minutes before, whereby an anonymous woman had maintained that a neighbor of hers—someone she apparently knew—was being attacked by a man.
When Sileo arrived, another officer was just pulling up behind him to the same scene. They agreed to knock on the door. See what the hell was going on inside the condo.
The unit at 105 Harbor Drive sat on top of a three-car garage. A visitor would have to walk up several steps to the front door.
The officer who had arrived as Sileo pulled up knocked on the screen door. With no answer, he opened it and knocked on the interior door, looking in all directions to see if anyone was around.
When no one answered, the patrol officer tried the handle.
It was unlocked.
Sileo watched as his colleague opened the door “a few inches,” took a quick peek inside, and then yelled, “Stamford Police . . . is anyone home?”
No response. It was eerily quiet. Especially for a domestic, which was called into 911.
Pushing the door fully open, Sileo’s colleague spied a ghastly sight, which immediately prompted him to draw his weapon.
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