In the shadowed annals of American true crime, few stories evoke the visceral horror and lingering outrage quite like that of Susan Smith. Thirty-one years ago, on a crisp October evening in 1994, the then-23-year-old mother strapped her two toddler sons into their car seats and watched impassively as her Mazda Protégé rolled down a boat ramp into the murky depths of John D. Long Lake. Michael, just three years old, and Alexander, a cherubic 14-month-old, drowned in the frigid water, their tiny hands likely clawing at the straps that bound them. Smith, feigning hysteria, spun a tale of a Black carjacker that captivated the nation, only for the truth to unravel in a confession that shocked the world. Now, as whispers of her potential release swirl once more, the prosecutor who sealed her fate three decades ago has broken his silence with a resounding plea: Keep her locked away.
Tommy Pope, the hard-nosed South Carolina solicitor who led the charge against Smith in her 1995 murder trial, minced no words during a riveting panel at CrimeCon in Denver earlier this month. “Susan, to me, needs to remain incarcerated as punishment for what she’s done,” Pope told Fox News Digital, his voice carrying the weight of unresolved justice. Speaking at the annual gathering of true crime enthusiasts on September 6, 2025, Pope revisited the case that defined his career, arguing that Smith’s crimes demand perpetual penance. Denied parole in November 2024 after an emotional hearing, Smith will be eligible again in 2026—a prospect that Pope, now a Republican state legislator, views with unyielding opposition. “It’s not like she’s going to have two more kids and do the same thing, arguably,” he conceded, but emphasized that her release would undermine the gravity of her actions. “If she would get out and say, move to Montana and you never heard from her again, get married, do whatever she wants, in a weird way, that would be healthier for David Smith, the father who’s been carrying this.”
Pope’s remarks come at a time when Smith’s story is experiencing a macabre resurgence in popular culture. Documentaries, podcasts, and even a forthcoming Lifetime movie have thrust the “killer mom” back into the spotlight, prompting debates over redemption, mental health, and the limits of forgiveness. Yet, for those who lived through the nightmare—investigators, family members, and a community forever scarred—the wounds remain raw. “It’s always somebody else’s fault. She’s either a victim or a princess,” Pope said of Smith, critiquing her tendency to deflect blame. His words echo the sentiments of many who believe that some sins are simply unforgivable, especially when they involve the betrayal of innocence.
To understand the depth of this outrage, one must rewind to the autumn of 1994 in Union, a sleepy mill town of about 10,000 souls in upstate South Carolina. Susan Leigh Vaughan, born on September 26, 1971, grew up in a home marred by tragedy and turmoil. Her father, Harry Vaughan, a firefighter and mill worker, committed suicide when Susan was just six, plunging the family into grief. Her mother, Linda, remarried to Bev Russell, a prominent local businessman and member of the Christian Coalition—a union that would later reveal dark secrets. Court records and Smith’s own testimony paint a picture of a childhood riddled with sexual abuse; Russell molested her from age 15 onward, a fact that emerged during her trial and complicated the narrative of her culpability.
By her early twenties, Susan had married David Smith, a fellow grocery store clerk, in a whirlwind romance that produced Michael in October 1991 and Alexander in August 1993. But the marriage crumbled under infidelity and financial strain. David filed for divorce in September 1994, citing Susan’s affair with Tom Findlay, the wealthy son of her boss at Conso Products Company. Findlay, in a devastating letter read aloud at trial, ended their relationship because he wasn’t ready for children: “Susan, I could really fall for you… But like I have told you before, there are some things about you that aren’t suited for me, and yes, I am speaking about your children.” Prosecutors argued this rejection was the catalyst for murder—Smith, desperate to eliminate the “obstacles” to her new life, chose filicide over motherhood.
On October 25, 1994, around 9 p.m., Susan drove to the lake’s edge with her boys asleep in the back. She released the parking brake, exited the vehicle, and let it glide into the water. For nine agonizing days, she maintained her fiction: Tearfully pleading on national TV for the return of her “babies,” describing the phantom carjacker in detail that fueled racial tensions in the South. “Please, if anybody has my children, just let them go,” she sobbed to cameras, flanked by David and a nation gripped by sympathy. Behind the scenes, investigators grew suspicious. Polygraph tests faltered, inconsistencies mounted, and Sheriff Howard Wells, in a masterstroke of psychology, confronted her with biblical passages about truth. On November 3, Susan cracked: “My children are not all right,” she confessed, admitting the car was at the bottom of the lake.
Divers recovered the bodies that night, still buckled in, their faces pressed against the windows in a final, futile bid for air. The revelation sparked riots in Union, with crowds chanting “Baby killer!” outside the jail. Smith’s arrest on two counts of murder made global headlines, her mugshot—a wide-eyed young woman with disheveled hair—becoming an icon of maternal monstrosity.
The trial, commencing July 10, 1995, in the Union County Courthouse, was a spectacle of Southern gothic drama. Judge William Howard presided over a jury of nine women and three men, selected after exhaustive questioning to ensure impartiality amid media frenzy. Prosecutor Tommy Pope, then 32 and ambitious, sought the death penalty, portraying Smith as a calculating narcissist who sacrificed her sons for romance. “This is not a case about insanity,” Pope thundered in opening statements. “This is a case about selfishness.” Witnesses detailed her affairs, her composure post-crime, and a chilling reenactment video where divers timed the car’s submersion at six minutes—long enough for the boys to wake and panic.
Defense attorneys David Bruck and Judy Clarke, renowned for representing high-profile defendants like the Unabomber, argued mitigation: Smith’s depression, abuse history, and suicidal ideation. They called psychiatrists who diagnosed her with dependent personality disorder and post-traumatic stress. “Susan Smith is not evil,” Clarke implored the jury. “She is deeply damaged.” Smith herself took the stand, weeping as she recounted her intent to die with her sons but chickening out at the last moment. The jury, after deliberating just two and a half hours, convicted her on July 22 but spared her life, opting for life imprisonment with parole eligibility after 30 years.
Sentencing brought catharsis and controversy. David Smith, heartbroken, faced Susan in court: “How could you do this? You took away my boys.” Judge Howard, imposing the sentence, noted the crime’s “heinous” nature but acknowledged her remorse. Smith was whisked to the Women’s Correctional Center in Columbia, where she has spent the last three decades navigating a turbulent prison existence.
Life behind bars for Susan Smith has been anything but quiet. Early on, she engaged in sexual relationships with two guards, leading to their dismissals and her contraction of syphilis. In 2000, she was caught with marijuana, earning solitary confinement. More recently, in 2023, she was disciplined for communicating with a documentary filmmaker without permission and, bizarrely, for speaking with a “victim and/or witness of a crime.” Despite these infractions, Smith has pursued self-improvement: Earning a GED, participating in counseling, and working as a wardkeeper. In letters to suitors—revealed in tabloid exposés—she portrays herself as reformed, quoting scripture and expressing regret.
The November 20, 2024, parole hearing at the South Carolina Department of Probation, Parole and Pardon Services was a pivotal moment. Appearing via video from Leath Correctional Institution, the now-53-year-old Smith, her hair graying and face etched with lines, delivered a tearful apology. “I am truly sorry… What I did was horrible, and I don’t know how I let it happen,” she said, her voice breaking. She invoked God’s forgiveness and her abuse history, pleading for a second chance. “I know I have to face what I did every day, but I want to make a difference now.”
Opposition was fierce. David Smith, remarried with children, testified remotely: “She took the two most precious things in my life. Parole would be a slap in the face.” Relatives of the boys, including their aunt, echoed his plea: “Life should mean life.” Tommy Pope, attending in person, reiterated his trial stance: “I think she shouldn’t get out ever.” The board, after 45 minutes, denied parole unanimously, citing the crime’s severity and Smith’s prison misconduct.
Pope’s recent comments at CrimeCon amplify this denial. Addressing a packed auditorium, he shared haunting details: Unseen photos of the submerged car, Smith’s affair timelines, and juror reactions to the reenactment. “The death penalty was appropriate… the most significant punishment possible,” he reflected in a separate interview. He critiqued Smith’s victim narrative, noting her lack of genuine accountability. “She’s always playing the role—victim or princess,” he said.
For David Smith, the pain endures. In rare interviews, he speaks of rebuilding: “I visit their graves every week. Michael’s laugh, Alex’s smile—they’re gone because of her.” Community members in Union, where a memorial stands at the lake (site of another tragedy when seven drowned trying to see the spot), share his resolve. “We’ve forgiven, but not forgotten,” says local pastor Rev. Mark Taylor. “Parole? Not in our lifetime.”
Experts weigh in on the broader implications. Dr. Katherine Ramsland, a forensic psychologist and CrimeCon speaker, notes filicide’s rarity—about 500 cases annually in the U.S.—but its profound societal impact. “Cases like Smith’s challenge our notions of motherhood,” she says. “They force us to confront evil in the everyday.” Advocates for abuse survivors, like those from the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence, argue for nuance: “Her trauma doesn’t excuse murder, but it explains desperation.”
As 2026 looms, Smith’s fate hangs in the balance. Will remorse sway the board, or will Pope’s call for enduring punishment prevail? In Union, where the lake’s waters still whisper of lost innocence, the consensus is clear: Some doors should remain forever closed.
For Tommy Pope, the fight isn’t over. “Justice isn’t just about time served—it’s about the lives shattered,” he says. As Susan Smith counts the days in her cell, the world watches, wondering if redemption can ever eclipse such darkness.
