by Ashley Smith
I walked across the hallway to my bedroom. I was just going to be in here for a minute. Where are those guns? Hurry, Ashley. I could still hear the TV, and I was guessing Brian hadn’t moved from the couch.
Okay. There was the extension cord, the curtain, and that pile of tape thrown over by the dresser. I know I heard something hit the floor in here. Looking down, I saw the bed skirt was kind of sticking out funny at the end of the bed, so I knelt down as quietly as I could and lifted the skirt up a little. There they are. Okay. They’re under the bed. I wasn’t sure why he put the guns under there, but maybe it was a good thing. I was hoping it meant he was done. Lord, please. Please just let him be done.
I stood up and saw my Bible and Purpose-Driven Life book sitting on the bed where I’d left them, so I picked those up. I still had a few minutes to do my devotion before I left, and I was going to do it sitting in the living room. I was sticking to my routine right here. I was giving God his time like I promised him. I hadn’t missed a day on this book yet. And anyway, something about my Bible and my book just made me feel comfortable. I wanted them near me. I just wanted them with me in that living room with Brian.
Walking out, I saw one of my closet doors wasn’t closed all the way. “My file drawers,” I thought. Pushing the closet door shut, I started worrying that when I left, Brian might start going through my paperwork. I mean, what if he decided to keep running and not turn himself in, and he went in there and got my social security number and used it or found a way to steal my identity or something? What could I do? Ashley, you can’t do anything. You have to get out of this apartment. Just stay focused. Be calm. Go sit down.
“You look really tired,” Brian said. I was standing near the bar, facing him and holding my Bible and book.
“Yeah,” I said. Well, what do you think? “Yes, I am really tired, but the most important thing for me right now is to go and see my daughter. She’s waiting on me.” I thought I’d better remind him. I was going to see Paige. I was walking out that door. I’m leaving here, buddy, in about a half hour.
My glass of juice from breakfast was still sitting on the dining room table, so I went over and picked it up. Then I walked around to my side of the couch and set the glass down on the coffee table.
The TV was still blaring all of that Brian Nichols stuff, but I didn’t care now. I was too tired to care. I laid my book beside me on the couch and opened up my Bible.
There was my grandpa’s inscription from Christmas 1978 on the inside front cover. “Put Christ first,” it read, “—in the home, school, work and play. He will never leave you or forsake you.” That’s what I need right now, God. I need you to stay right here with me. Just stay with me.
I flipped to the back and found Philippians. Where is it? My verse? There: “I can do all things through Him who strengthens me.” I just sat there looking at the page for a minute. The words all started blurring together. But sitting there with the Bible open made me feel better. It’s just a few more minutes, Ashley. He’s going to let you go.
I reached for my Purpose-Driven Life now and opened it to Paige’s bookmark. It was still at Day 32, so I flipped ahead to Day 33, “How Real Servants Act.” Actually, I hadn’t even read Day 32—just that first page with Brian. But it didn’t matter now. I couldn’t read anyway. I just kept the book open on my lap and stared for a few more minutes at the pages.
25 i’ll just be here
I was standing in the kitchen now. The microwave clock read 9:15. Brian was still sitting on the couch in front of the TV, and I was trying to think of what I could do for him —what I could leave around the house to maybe encourage him and keep him focused on what he needed to do.
I had intentionally left my Bible and my book on the coffee table. Maybe he would pick those up and read them. Now I was thinking about the dryerase board on my fridge. Every morning I tried to write the date on that board, a Bible verse, and a quote from a quote book I used.
I stood at the board now, floipping through a small devotional book looking for a verse. I had gone back to my bedroom and gotten the book out of my basket. Friends of my grandparents had given the book to me about two weeks after Mack died; it was called God’s Inspirational Promise Book, and I had used it so much, the cover had fallen off. In a moment I found the right verse. Yes. This right here is definitely the verse he needs.
I erased the board and wrote “March 12, 2005” at the top in black ink. Then I grabbed the thick blue marker from off the top of the fridge and started writing the verse. I wrote it really big on the board: “So now, those who are in Jesus Christ are not judged guilty. Romans 8:1.”
Maybe he would see those words written there the next time he came to the fridge for a beer or something.
“Well, I’m about to leave,” I told him. I had come back around the bar now. My pocketbook was sitting on Paige’s toy box, where I’d left it after going to drop off the truck, so I stepped over there and picked it up.
I could tell it was really bright outside. The sun was beaming through the cracks in the blinds. It was such a total change from the darkness of the night. Light. Brightness. Morning. Time to go. Thank you, God. It was time to go.
“Okay,” he said, sitting forward on the couch. “I’ll just be here. Will you tell Paige hello for me?”
“Sure,” I answered. What? What am I going to say? “Hey, Paige, Brian Nichols said hello”? My family would really go for that one.
Then Brian stood up and walked around the corner to the bathroom. He came back a second or two later holding out some cash—the wad of bills from the bathroom counter, I guessed. I wondered if it belonged to the agent.
“Here,” he said, holding out the money. “Here’s forty bucks.”
“No,” I said. “No, that’s okay. I don’t need that.” Man, you better keep that money because if you don’t turn yourself in and you start running again, then you’re going to hurt someone else trying to steal money, so just keep it. “Really,” I said, “you might need it.”
“Just take it,” he said, still holding it out. “All I’m going to do is sit here and sleep for the next few days.”
My grandmother always told me never to turn down money twice. One time, yes. But not two times. So I just took it—I would figure out who to give it to later. Maybe Brian was giving it to me now because he really was going to turn himself in like he said. I didn’t know, but there was no use arguing. I needed to leave.
“Okay,” I said, stepping toward him and taking the money.
“Is there anything I can do for you while you’re gone?” he asked now. “You know, like hang your curtains or something—or the mirror?” He was pointing to the mirror on the back of the couch. I was going to center it on the wall there and hang a gold angel candleholder on either side.
“Uh, yeah,” I said. “You can do that.” I really need to leave here, buddy. But I could see he was kind of itching to do something. Maybe the drugs were getting to him. Maybe he wanted to help. Whatever it was, he needed something to do right then.
So I said, “The hammer’s in the drawer by the stove, and the nails are in a plastic container on that shelf in the laundry room.” Right after I said it, he went to go get them.
Then I glanced down at my curtain rod just beside Paige’s toy box. Next to it were three of the four panels that were supposed to go on it—the missing cream-colored panel was what Brian had used to tie me up. I grabbed the rod quickly and put those three panels on—tan, cream, tan—and held it out to him as he came back in the room.
“Here,” I said, “you can hang this up too over these windows if you want.” Then I laid the rod down on Paige’s toy box, dug my keys out of my purse, and turned toward the foyer.
I figured Brian knew this was the last time he was going to see me. He had to have known I was going to call the police. He must’ve known. But if he did, he never let on.
“Okay,” I said. “Well, bye.” I was standing at one end of the coffee table. He was standing at th
e other end, holding the hammer and nails.
“Bye,” he said. “See you later.”
I walked to the door and opened it, and the light just poured in.
26 surrender
Pulling the door closed, I felt like my knees were just going to buckle under me right there. The sun was beaming down on me. It was bright, incredibly bright. And I thought I was going to collapse on the way to the car. I could hardly walk those ten steps. My legs wouldn’t move right. My heart was racing. I was trying to think. Okay, I’ve got to call the police right now. Right now. What if he opens that door? What if he comes after me? What if he has those guns and shoots me in the back? What if he just blows me away?
I got to my car as fast as I could without my knees giving out. I had my keys ready and could see my hand shaking as I tried to get the key in the lock. Once I got the door open, I threw my pocketbook to the passenger side, climbed in, and shut the door. I was almost frozen behind the wheel—I couldn’t move for a second. For a brief second. Then I put the key in the ignition and started the car. Thank you, God.
I backed up and drove around that corner, just yanking stuff out of my purse with my right hand to find my cell phone. Here it is. I opened the phone, and when I got down the short hill to that first stop sign, I dialed 911.
It was busy.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I was yelling at the phone. They’ve got to go get him right now or he’s gonna hurt somebody or hurt himself. I knew if he hurt himself, I was going to have to walk back into that apartment, and that would just be traumatizing. I couldn’t do that. Lord, be with this whole situation. Help me here.
Now I was pulling up to the second stop sign, leading out of the apartment complex, and I dialed 911 again.
It was busy again.
“Y’all get off the phone! I’ve got something really important to say here! This is freakin’ nuts!”
I had taken a right on West Liddell and now was turning left at the light onto Satellite Boulevard. There was the QuikTrip up on the right where I’d gone to get cigarettes. And a Shell station on the left. I had dialed 911 a third time. Now it was ringing. And as I got to the next light someone answered. Well, thank you!
“Gwinnett County 911,” the woman said.
“Hey,” I said, trying to get air. “I’m calling because Brian Nichols has been in my house all night long.”
“What?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I felt pretty calm suddenly. I was able to talk to her. She asked me my name. “Ashley Smith,” I said.
Then: “Where are you?”
“I’m on the way to see my daughter.” I was headed like I was going to Dacula to my uncle’s church. I just want to see Paige right now. That’s all I want to do.
The woman got me to explain where the apartment was. “It’s 3414 Ridge Brook Trail,” I told her. “Bridgewater Apartments.”
Then she said, “Ma’am, we need you to go back to the leasing office.”
I turned around and headed back to the apartment complex. Do I have to go back there? I was so exhausted. For a minute I just wanted out of this whole thing. But no. I had to be there. They had to get Brian before something happened. The woman on the phone said the police would meet me at the leasing office. I had her on the line as I drove, and all I could think was, “What’s he doing? Has he left? Has he gotten those guns and left? Has he gone through that stuff in my closet? Is he dead?”
The leasing office was a few minutes’ drive from my apartment. I pulled into the parking area, and within five to ten seconds, the first police car arrived. The woman with 911 was asking me, “Where are you now? Where are you?”
“They’re here,” I told her. “I’m walking toward them.”
I got to the cop car and just started talking, trying to answer their questions.
“Where is he?” “He’s in my apartment. 3414. It’s on the bottom level.”
“Are you sure it was him?” “Yes, I’m sure.” I just spent the whole entire night with the guy. Yes, yes, I’m sure.
“What did he look like?” “He’s black, tall, pretty big. Look, it was him.” Don’t just stand here! Go get him! Don’t you understand? Something bad could happen!
“How did he get here?” “He had a truck.”
“What truck?” “I think it was a CIA agent’s truck. But he got rid of it. I went with him.”
“Ma’am, you’ve got to take us to that truck.” What? Are they saying they won’t believe me unless they see the truck? They’ll never get him in time. He could be gone. With all of those guns.
I got into the backseat of one of the police cars, and we started toward the industrial area where Brian had dropped off the truck a couple of hours earlier.
We went back by the same route I had driven just as it was getting light. West Liddell. Old Norcross. The cut-through street. Crossing Buford Highway. The industrial park road. And then the right-hand turn into that parking lot by the row of brick buildings.
“There it is,” I said. There was the dark blue pickup. Right where Brian had left it a little after dawn. In the last parking space next to the hedge and in front of building “A.” The last time I had looked at that truck, Brian was opening my passenger door and climbing into my car. You really are a “ride or die chick.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” one of the cops said. He radioed another officer, and over the speaker I heard, “It’s him. It’s him. He’s in our county.”
I thought: “I tried to tell y’all. I just spent a bunch of time with the man. I mean, I know it’s him. You don’t have to doubt me.” Can you guys please just go in and get this guy?
Back at the apartment complex, we continued on past the leasing office, and I could see police cars driving around the corner toward my apartment—just one car after the next. Okay, it looks like I’m going back down there. I really don’t want to go down there.
We followed the line of cars down that long road, and I could see they were beginning to set up right there at the bridge. Police cars. Unmarked cars. Vans. A black Tahoe. Police in uniform. Others in plain clothes. Helicopters were flying overhead. Lord, this is huge. This is huge. Just please don’t let there be a blood bath.
I got out of the car, and immediately different officers started rushing at me. I was the only person who had seen Brian Nichols. I was trying to explain how to get to my apartment. “It’s real easy,” I said. “It’s 3414. All you have to do is go up, take the only right that you can, then go around the corner to the left, and it’s the first building on the left, and the apartment is the bottom right one.”
“Ma’am,” one officer said, “we need you to come with us and point it out.” No. I really didn’t want to do that. There could be a shoot-out. People could die. I could die.
“This way,” he said.
I walked with a group of armed guys up a small hill to the back of the apartment building on the right side of the road. The front of that building overlooked my building. We took the stairs up to the second flooor and walked through the outdoor hallway to the front of the building so I could point out my apartment—in the open air.
I was thinking, “You’ve got to be kidding me. He’s got guns in that house. He could come out shooting right now. And they all have on bulletproof vests, and I don’t have one, and he could come right out and target me and just shoot me in the head.”
I stood at the railing pointing now. “Look,” I said, “my apartment’s right there. The bottom level. 3414. The second one on the right.” I was almost leaning over the rail to point through a clump of trees. Lord, am I going to live through this? What if I don’t live through this?
They led me back down the stairs now, out the back of the building, and down the hill to the bridge area. I saw dozens of guys with rifloes and floak jackets and helmets huddling together and getting organized. Oh, God, don’t let it explode around here. Just keep the lid on this thing. Please. Please!
A big, kind of squared-off black van had pulled up right
at the bridge, and the police took me to stand behind it. “Stay here,” they said. I just kept thinking, “I’m standing here out in the open? What if he comes down that hill and guns just start going off?”
“Hey,” someone else said to me. “Did you know there’s a reward out for this guy?” “No,” I answered. I was remembering Brian’s words: “You’ll be on the news.”
Right then I could hear shouting: “It’s him! It’s him!” I looked around the van, and a car was coming down the hill toward us. A black man was behind the wheel. I already told you guys he didn’t have a car. Unless he stole one.
“Get behind the van!” someone yelled at me. “He might have a gun.” I squatted down. Oh, God, please, no. Don’t let this happen.
Then I heard someone say, “It’s not him. Let him go.” Thank you. Stay with me. Don’t leave me.
I started praying like crazy: “Lord, please don’t let people die. Don’t let him come out shooting. Just let him come out—let him come out without those guns. Let him surrender. Don’t let them go in there and kill him. I can’t walk into my house and see blood splattered everywhere. If I have to see that . . . Just, please. Please.”
I was thinking about Brian. My emotions were all over the place. I thought: “Did I betray him by saying he could stay there—I mean, I didn’t want to have to do this. I begged him to turn himself in. I gave him every opportunity.” Then: “Ashley, what are you thinking? The guy killed a bunch of people and held a gun in your face. And if it wasn’t for God keeping his finger straight like that, he could’ve just pulled the trigger and you’d be dead.” Then: “But I know he was sorry for what he did. I saw that side of him. I don’t want them to blow him away in my apartment.”
Standing behind the van, I could just picture Brian coming out with a gun and shooting agents everywhere and guns going off all around me. I could almost hear the shots right then. It was like I was just waiting for it all to start. And I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want to have to see it. God, just help. Help. Help. You’ve got to do something here. Let him come out. Let him surrender. Don’t let anyone get hurt. Do something.
