More than three decades after the shocking drownings that gripped the nation, Susan Smith is still finding ways to insert herself into conversation—this time through late-night phone calls and flirtatious text exchanges with men on the outside.
The woman whose 1994 crime shook South Carolina continues to stir controversy from behind the walls of Leath Correctional Institution, where she is serving a life sentence.
Her Explanation for the Failed Parole Bid
In the private messages she’s been sending to male admirers, Smith has shared her own take on why her most recent attempt at freedom fell flat.
One of the men told the Daily Mail that she matter-of-factly told him she simply “didn’t cry enough” during her 2024 hearing.
According to him, she said the board wants remorse you can practically measure, and she believes she just didn’t give them the emotional display they were looking for.
“I’ll do better next time,” she reportedly added with unsettling confidence.
A Prison Routine Built Around Her Suitors
The transcripts reviewed by the Daily Mail paint a picture of a woman who spends a surprising amount of time building relationships beyond the prison gates.
Her daily rhythm includes texting up to 20 times a day and long phone calls filled with romance and intimate banter.
The men she interacts with vary widely in age—some barely 30, others nearing retirement.
To one of them, she insisted that she’s exactly where God wants her for now, but she’s convinced her situation will change.
She predicted, without hesitation, that she’ll walk out of prison within two years.
The Parole Board Heard a Different Tone
During the official hearing, Smith struck a very different chord.
She spoke quietly, voice shaking, acknowledging her crime and telling the board she would give anything to undo it.
She leaned heavily on faith, stressing that God had already forgiven her and asking for similar mercy from the board.
But her former husband David Smith—still carrying wounds that haven’t faded with time—asked the board to leave no room for leniency.
In tears, he begged them to keep her behind bars, not just that day but in the years to come.
And when the hearing ended, he made it clear he would show up every time to ensure she never succeeds.
Private Words Reveal a Harder Edge
Though her hearing was filled with subdued remorse, Smith’s private conversations show a more bitter take.
She told one man that she never had a real chance—claiming the decision was already made long before she sat down in front of the board.
In her view, the process was stacked against her from the start.
Another man who had been close to her—an airline employee from Michigan who exchanged messages with her for two years—said that her parole comments didn’t shock him at all.
To him, she was skilled at shaping her personality to whatever a man wanted: spiritual, flirty, affectionate.
But he noticed one topic she always avoided: her sons. She never uttered their names, he said.
When he discovered she was carrying on conversations with other men, he walked away.
“She’ll say anything to whoever can help her,” he explained.
“And she doesn’t seem bothered by who gets hurt in the process.”
Revisiting the Tragedy That Forever Marked a Community
Smith was only 22 when she became the center of one of the most infamous crimes in American history.
Living in Union, South Carolina, with her two sons—three-year-old Michael and 14-month-old Alex—she had begun a relationship with Tom Findlay, the son of her boss at a local manufacturing company.
But that relationship imploded after a night involving a hot-tub gathering, another man, and Findlay’s growing discomfort with the responsibility of a girlfriend with children.
In a letter that would later become a key piece of the timeline, he told her plainly that he didn’t want a relationship that included kids, no matter how “good” they were.
Only a week later, Smith allowed her car to roll down a boat ramp and into John D. Long Lake with her sons strapped into their seats.
She stood by as the car slipped beneath the surface while the boys cried out from inside.
The False Kidnapping That Fueled Panic
In the days that followed, Smith fabricated a story that led to a countywide dragnet.
She claimed a Black man had carjacked her and taken the boys, a lie that resulted in police knocking on doors, interrogating innocent residents, and stirring racial tension throughout the community.
For nine agonizing days, she and David Smith stood before cameras pleading for the children’s safe return—until she finally confessed.
The boys were recovered still secured in their seats when the vehicle was pulled from the lake.
A Conviction That Still Casts a Long Shadow
Convicted on two counts of first-degree murder, Smith narrowly avoided the death penalty.
Instead, she received a life sentence with the possibility of parole after 30 years.
Now 54, she remains determined that she will not die inside prison walls.
To friends and correspondents, she expresses a steady certainty: her release is coming.
Maybe not today, maybe not this month—but she insists it’s inevitable.
Looking Ahead to Her Next Bid for Freedom
South Carolina law requires a two-year gap between parole attempts, meaning Smith can try again next year.
Whether the board will see anything different—or whether David Smith will once again stand before them pleading for her continued imprisonment—remains to be seen.
For now, though, she’s still writing, still calling, still cultivating connections.
And still believing, with absolute conviction, that the door will open for her one day.
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