She Survived: Anne

By M. William Phelps and Anne Bridges Johnson

From the bestselling author of The Killing Kind, a woman shares her story of survival after a man holds her captive at gunpoint.

By the time Anne Bridges saw the gun in Jimmy Williams's hand, it was already too late. The bad things she had heard about him—how he had drugged a woman and held her hostage—Anne now realized were true. Only now it was her turn.

What began as a well-intentioned attempt to reconnect with an old friend became, for Anne, a struggle to survive. In her own words Anne shares a chilling minute-by-minute account of her ordeal—the shotgun blast that nearly ended her life, her desperate struggle to escape, and the courage that sustained her on her long road to recovery—as part of a compelling narrative by award-winning, New York Times bestselling author M. William Phelps. She is telling her story in hopes that other women will not have to go through what she endured at the hands of a violent attacker.

Praise for New York Times bestselling author M. William Phelps

“One of America's finest true-crime writers.” —Vincent Bugliosi, New York Times bestselling author of Helter Skelter

“Phelps is the Harlan Coben of real-life thrillers.” —Allison Brennan, New York Times bestselling author of Tell No Lies

“Anything by Phelps is an eye-opening experience.” —Suspense Magazine

“Phelps is the king of true crime.” —Lynda Hirsch, Creators Syndicate columnist

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pinnacle Books
• Release date: Aug 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9780786034581

M. William Phelps

Crime writer and investigative journalist M. William Phelps is the author of twenty-four nonfiction books and the novel The Dead Soul. He consulted on the first season of the Showtime series Dexter, has been profiled in Writer’s Digest, Connecticut Magazine, NY Daily News, NY Post, Newsday, Suspense Magazine, and the Hartford Courant, and has written for Connecticut Magazine. Winner of the New England Book Festival Award for I’ll Be Watching You and the Editor’s Choice Award from True Crime Book Reviews for Death Trap, Phelps has appeared on nearly 100 television shows, including CBS’s Early Show, ABC’s Good Morning America, NBC’s Today Show, The View, TLC, BIO Channel, and History Channel. Phelps created, produces and stars in the hit Investigation Discovery series Dark Minds, now in its third season; and is one of the stars of ID’s Deadly Women. Radio America called him “the nation’s leading authority on the mind of the female murderer.” Touched by tragedy himself, due to the unsolved murder of his pregnant sister-in-law, Phelps is able to enter the hearts and minds of his subjects like no one else. He lives in a small Connecticut farming community and can be reached at his website, www.mwilliamphelps.com.

Book preview

Phelps

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 . . .

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 mother'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