Nanny Knows Best

Jim Cannon's death is the kind of tragedy that invites speculation. The buzz words surrounding the case—tony neighborhood, former prom queen, wealthy attorney—are catnip to both public and press. Paired with a switchback's worth of police reports and court filings that depict a volatile marriage, it's no wonder that a month-and-a-half after a housekeeper's frantic 911 call, the case remains a staple of late-night newscasts.

In the aftermath of that June morning when Jim was found stuffed naked in a closet in his West End-area home, it seems everyone around him has had a chance to tell their side of the story. His friends. His co-workers. His mother-in-law. Even the woman charged with his murder has had her say.

Last month, Kelley Cannon spoke to the Scene of a husband who was a controlling, verbally abusive drug addict. She couldn't really support her story or explain why a judge decided to give her husband custody of their children. She really didn't have an answer for a lot of things. But still, in Kelley's telling, she was the dedicated mother struck immobile by the power of an undying love.

It's a version that doesn't sit well with Lauren Wilson. As a nanny in the Cannon home, Wilson was witness to how Jim, Kelley and their three children lived and worked together. From early March when she was hired until her firing in May, Wilson was there from morning till night. And from the way she tells it, Kelley's account is anything but reality.

A year after graduating from Franklin Christian Academy, Wilson was working for a nanny placement service in Green Hills when she first heard about the Cannons. She'd grown up babysitting and was eager to find a full-time family.

Her roommate had just done a short stint with the Cannons but had another job lined up. She suggested Wilson take her place. The dad and kids were great, the roommate told Wilson, but the mom was in rehab. It had something to do with drugs. She wasn't quite sure.

"She told me, 'Lauren, I would just be very careful,' " says Wilson.

It didn't take long to grasp the rationale behind the warning. Before her first night with Jim and the kids in their Bowling Avenue home, Wilson was given the run down. Kelley was in rehab for pills. She was hooked on OxyContin, a notoriously addictive painkiller. She'd lost 30 pounds. Jim told Wilson that Kelley was so whacked-out at times she could hardly stand up.

The speech left Wilson freaked. But she liked that Jim was honest with her. And seeing the way he interacted with his kids—two elementary school-aged boys and a toddler daughter—left her convinced he was a good father.

She agreed to work on an interim basis. Wilson would arrive at the home early in the morning. She'd leave in the afternoon when Jim got back from the bill collection firm he helped found.

As one of her first tasks, Jim asked Wilson to help find all of Kelley's stash spots. Kelley had taken to folding up sandwich bags filled with crushed Oxycontin and sawed-off straws for snorting. Jim and Wilson's recovery mission revealed baggies in almost every nook and cranny. In the boys' closets. In the kitchen cupboards. Even balled up in the baby's sock drawer. The white stuff was everywhere.

For the first two weeks, life for Wilson was structured. A normal routine of brown bags and laundry loads, shuttling the kids to and from home and school. Then, one Sunday, Jim asked Wilson to accompany him to family day at Cumberland Heights, the rehab clinic where Kelley was almost finished with a monthlong stint. The kids were uncommonly rowdy that morning, says Wilson, shouting at their dad that they didn't want to go.

Wilson led the kids into a room to meet with their mother, holding the baby girl in her arms. Kelley was a tiny, hyper woman—gaunt, if not pretty, with sharp features and thick Chanel frames. Wilson introduced herself, but Kelley didn't bother to shake hands. She simply chided Wilson for dressing her daughter in a jacket she thought was dirty. After a few minutes of Kelley's admonitions, the boys asked Wilson if she'd take them to the center's playground.

"She was huggin' on them, trying to get them to talk to her," says Wilson. "I just kind of got a bad feeling. I was nervous and I told Jim that. It was kind of like I was taking (Kelley's) place. The kids wanted to be with me more than they wanted to be with her."

Kelley returned home a week later for what was supposed to be a short stay. Jim had made plans to fly her to a center in Arizona for 90 days of treatment. But the flight came and went without Kelley aboard. Wilson was told that plans had changed. Kelley wasn't going anywhere. And it was then, Wilson says, that life in the Cannon home turned upside down.

Suddenly, every day was a struggle. Kelley's only real responsibility was to pick up the boys from school. Every day at 3:30, like clockwork, there'd be a call from Jim asking if she'd done it yet. In this way, Wilson says, Kelley was right: Jim was a control freak. But only because he knew his two boys were being cared for by a woman who could barely keep herself upright.