Unlikely Angel

by Ashley Smith

  Superior Court Judge Rowland W. Barnes, 64, was serving his seventh year on the Fulton County bench at the time of his murder. He died in his courtroom shortly before the Brian Nichols trial was scheduled to begin. Widely regarded as one of the most beloved figures in county government, Barnes was often described as jovial, fair, and warmhearted. A graduate of Emory University Law School in Atlanta and a native of Wyoming, Judge Barnes left behind a loving wife, Claudia, two daughters, and four stepchildren. His daughter Kiley, 26, plans to become a lawyer and continue her father’s legacy.

  Court reporter Julie Ann Brandau, 46, was a dedicated “Guardian of the Record,” the title court reporters across the nation sometimes give themselves as they work long hours to transcribe everything said in a courtroom. However, she always found time to bake pound cakes, peach bread, or cookies for juries during trials. A native of Moncks Corner, South Carolina, and the youngest of three girls, Brandau had been the court reporter for Judge Barnes since 1998, when he was appointed to the bench; she had worked for more than twenty years in the Fulton County courts. Loved by colleagues and friends alike, she and her college-age daughter, Christina, enjoyed travel and took trips to Hawaii and Costa Rica.

  Deputy Sergeant Hoyt—known to family and friends as Keith—Teasley, 43, was recognized, even as a boy, for his protective instinct. He once went off on his bike to help search for a missing neighbor; and when a firecracker exploded at a family gathering, he threw himself over his sister to cover her. Teasley also was considered a great neighbor —a friendly and quiet person who would offer to help others with their yard work. An Atlanta native, Teasley served with the Georgia Air National Guard, and he joined the Fulton County Sheriff’s Department in 1986. He is survived by his wife, Deborah, and his young daughters, DeKeisha and Deona.

  U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement Special Agent David Wilhelm, 40, had served in federal law enforcement for eighteen years. His friends and family remember him as a strong leader, smart, honest, and hardworking, and as someone who loved and could connect with people. He also had a talent for home building and remodeling—he was laying tile at his new Atlanta house the night he was murdered. Born in Salisbury, North Carolina, Wilhelm had been transferred to Atlanta in late 2004 to continue a career as a rising star. He left behind a beloved wife, Candee.

  Photographic Insert

  I never saw this highway sign. I was too busy working and moving on March 11 to pay much attention to the news—to my step-dad’s great dismay.

  I did see Brian Nichols’s mug shot (left) on TV. But when he held me at gunpoint and told me who he was, I couldn’t remember it.

  My first interview after being held hostage (right). By the emotion on my face, I probably just finished talking about my young daughter Paige.

  My first-grade picture, 1983. Augusta Christian Schools. Mom, Aunt Kim, and Uncle David all worked there; my grandpa was the former headmaster.

  Here’s my basketball picture, junior year at Lakeside High School—before I started using drugs. Pot smoking started the next summer. It was all downhill from there.

  Me at about seven. My mother loves this picture—I smiled on cue! It was just Mom and me in those days.

  Eighth grade at Augusta Christian—my last year before heading to public school. I was the only grandchild who wasn’t a natural blond.

  New parents. My husband Mack and me a few days after Paige was born (above). Man, were we young—21 and 20! May 1999.

  Above: Mack looking mad and me trying to humor him. Not unusual. Summer 1998. We had just started dating. I got pregnant a few months later.

  Christmas 2000. Aunt Kim had taken me Christmas shopping in Atlanta. Mack loved Abercrombie & Fitch—he was all about brand names.

  Mack and me on a Friday night (above). We were getting ready to go out. Probably in a limo with our friends. Not good.

  Strung out on ice, 2003 (above). My friend snapped the picture, saying, “You’re gonna thank me for this.” She wanted me to see how bad I looked: skinny, delirious, unable to produce a real smile. Sad.

  Mack and me with our best friends, Mike and Katie—Mack’s nephew and his wife. New Year’s Eve 2000. This was taken just before we went to the club where Mack knocked me out cold and left me lying on the sidewalk.

  Our wedding invitation. We loved it.

  Mr. and Mrs. Mack Smith. I was 4 1/2 to 5 months pregnant and happy to be his wife. Just for pictures I let him wear those sneakers—he always had the latest.

  Our wedding reception. He slammed the cake in my face. I knew it was coming—we were having fun here!

  The first time I saw Paige was in this Polaroid, taken right after she was born prematurely and put into the special-care nursery. She was fighting for her life. I cried and cried.

  Paige coming around. We had to wash our hands for two minutes and put on robes and masks before holding her. She was the size of my hand.

  Miracle baby. Angel child. Me at age 20 holding Paige a few weeks after she was born. I practically lived at that hospital and drove those nurses crazy.

  Daddy snuck home from work to catch a quick cat-nap and hold the new love of his life.

  Our first Easter as a family, 2000. We vowed to take a family picture every Easter—but we only had one more together.

  My favorite picture of Mack. Tan, content, sitting outside, where he liked to be most. April 2000.

  Mack’s death announcement. I was in a total Xanax haze writing this and making the funeral arrangements.

  Mack holding his “best buddy”—his spitting image with that pug nose! I showed this to Brian Nichols after telling him what happened to Mack. I wanted him to feel my loss.

  Top: Mack’s death certificate. It was horrible getting this—to have to see the cause of death, time of death. “Homicide.” My worst nightmare. Horrible.

  Below: Mack’s grave, Christmas 2002. Paige and I decorate on holidays. I used to take her there when I was high on pills, just to sit. So unfair to her.

  FBI agents after the surrender, March 12. I was terrified there would be a shoot-out and a lot of blood. I prayed like crazy. Let him surrender!

  My apartment complex on the morning of March 12—the place was crawling with cops, FBI agents, SWAT teams, you name it.

  I couldn’t believe it when I saw Brian Nichols coming down the hill without a fight. No gun in his hand. Head up. He had turned himself in. I just thanked God.

  Brian Nichols in custody. I hope he knows that God is pleased he made the choice to surrender.

  Left: Paige and me at my cousin Sarah’s wedding last December. This was how I introduced Brian Nichols to my little girl. I would cry over this picture as I tried to gain his trust.

  Four generations (above). “Mema,” Mom, Paige, and me at our family reunion, June 2005. God blessed me with such a great, supportive family.

  Aunt Kim and me, May 2005. Paige’s end-of-the-year school program—the first one I attended at her new school. It was so special to me.

  Left: Reconnecting with my little girl. Paige and me one recent Sunday after church. This is how we live every day now—side by side.

  Me with my brother Christian at our family reunion, June 2005 (below). The first picture I’ve taken with him in six years. Just a sign of my isolation. Sad.

  My sister Leah and me at her birthday party, June 2005. She wanted lots of photos taken. A happy time.

  March 24, 2005. With Georgia Governor Sonny Perdue at the Georgia capitol. I was humbled to be honored by him and the other officials. My life truly is a testimony that miracles do happen.

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