The movie “Captive,” which opens Sept. 18, is based on the real-life story of recovering drug addict Ashley Smith, who was taken hostage in her home in 2005. Smith, now 37, a mother of three who works in radiology and lives in North Augusta, S.C., tells Jane Ridley how the terrifying ordeal changed her life — for the better.



Shoving the gun into the side of my head as I stood on my doorstep, my assailant placed his hand over my mouth as I cried out in terror.

“Shut up!” he hissed. “Stop screaming! If you quit screaming, I won’t hurt you.”

Ten years since I was held captive for seven excruciating hours by the so-called Atlanta courthouse killer, Brian Nichols, I still shudder at the memory. I never would have expected that the traumatic experience would force me to finally break my crystal meth habit and change my life forever.

It was March 11, 2005, on a Friday at around noon, when my stepfather woke me with a concerned phone call. The city of Atlanta was on lockdown. Nichols, a 33-year-old alleged rapist awaiting trial in court, had overpowered a guard and shot three people dead, including the judge. Armed and dangerous, he was on the loose.

While I switched on the TV and saw the suspect’s mug shot, I had other things on my mind. Not only was I battling addiction as a widowed single mom, but, just a day earlier, I’d moved into a smaller apartment in my residential complex in Duluth, Ga., 30 minutes from downtown Atlanta. I was busy getting the place in shape so my 5-year-old daughter Paige could visit.

She’d spent the last two years living with my aunt Kim after I reluctantly conceded that my domestic situation was unsafe for her. I’d been abusing every drug under the sun since high school and was now addicted to meth.

And so I didn’t give another thought to the search for Nichols until about 7 p.m., when a group of police officers dined at the local sports bar where I worked part-time. “Have y’all caught that guy yet?” I nonchalantly asked. “We haven’t caught him, but he’s long gone by now,” replied one officer. “We’re sure he’s in Alabama.”

After work, I went home to unpack. It was close to 2 a.m. when I decided to drive to the store to buy a pack of Marlboro Lights, but as I was walking to my car, I saw that someone wearing a baseball cap was sitting in the driver’s seat of a truck parked outside my house. I assumed it was a neighbor.

But the guy was still in his truck when I returned. I thought, “That’s a little weird.” Less than a minute later, he was on me with a gun, threatening to kill me. Nichols pushed me into my apartment and closed the door. “Is there anybody else living here?” he demanded. “No, but I have a little girl,” I said. “Please don’t hurt me, because I’m trying to be her mom.”

I’d recently started going to church after a long absence — I began to silently pray. “He can rape me and beat me, but please don’t let him kill me,” I told God. “Without me, Paige won’t have a mom or a dad.”

Nichols, 6-foot-2, muscular and dressed in the suit his lawyer had lent him for his court appearance, frog-marched me to my windowless bathroom. He ordered me to climb into the tub, still pointing his gun and menacingly showing me that he was also carrying a pistol, tucked into his sock, like a soldier.

He asked if I’d been watching the news that day. “A little,” I stammered. “The whole courthouse thing?” he said. “You know, Bri-an Nichols?” He pronounced his name slowly, pulling off his hat and stepping into the light.

“Ye-yes,” I said, recognizing him. My thoughts turned to the grim TV reports. This man had killed three people (I later discovered the death toll was actually four). And now he was standing in my apartment.

He had me sit in the bathtub for several minutes, which felt like hours. I could hear him rummaging around, and he came back with masking tape and an extension cord. “This is it,” I thought. “He’s going to strangle me, beat me and leave me for dead.”

“This is it,” I thought. “He’s going to strangle me, beat me and leave me for dead.” - Ashley Smith

After he tied me up, he moved me to a chair and placed a towel over my head. He said: “You don’t want to see me undress and take a shower.” He kept assuring me he was in charge of the situation. That if I did what he said, I’d be OK. I had no choice but to believe him.

All the time, I was working on establishing a rapport — asking him whether he had kids (he had a newborn son whom he’d never met) and telling him about Paige and our struggles after my husband’s death four years earlier. I started calling him Brian. One moment I felt optimistic that I might get through this unscathed. The next, I was terrified because his mood would change, particularly once he switched on the TV.

“They’re saying all these things about me — that I’m a rapist — but I’m not,” he yelled.

Then Brian asked if I had any drugs in the house. I could have lied, but I knew he would easily find the meth stashed under my bedsheets. Better I told the truth.

He untied me and asked me to prepare it for him, cutting the lines so he could snort it from a mirror. Three times, he asked if I would do it with him. It was as if God were talking to me, challenging me to either take the meth and give up on life forever or find the courage to resist.

“No,” I told Brian. “Drugs have screwed up my life. I’m not going to use them now with you, or ever again.” I didn’t care if I had five minutes or 50 years to live. I decided, in that moment, that I wasn’t going to touch them anymore.

Because of my recently renewed connection to God, I felt the need to read a religious book I kept in my bedroom: “The Purpose Driven Life” by pastor Rick Warren. It’s a day-by-day guide to leading a Christian life, and I read aloud the beginning of Chapter 33, about using the gifts that God gave you.

Before long, Brian and I got into a deep discussion about our purpose on Earth. Like me, he had a church upbringing but had lapsed. I gently suggested that it was time for him to take responsibility for what he did — killing those innocent people. And that maybe God had a plan for him to spread the gospel to the other men in jail.

All I wanted was God right now. I wanted to make God smile, like it said in my Purpose-Driven Life book. That’s what I wanted. Ashley Smith — Captive Movie (@Captive) September 9, 2015

It’s just me and this guy and you God. We’re in here. And I’m done with those drugs. All of that is over. I’m living for you. -Ashely Smith — Captive Movie (@Captive) September 10, 2015

It was a gamble, because I didn’t know how Brian would react. Contrary to what meth did to me — making me hyperactive — it seemed to have a calming effect on him. He listened to what I said and asked what he should do next. “You have to turn yourself in,” I said.

At around 5:30 a.m., Brian told me that he needed to move the truck that he’d carjacked from a government agent (his fourth and final victim) before the sun came up. He instructed me to drive ahead of him to a secluded spot where he could park it. I sat alone at the wheel of my car, debating whether I should just drive off in the opposite direction as fast as I could. But then how would this end? What if there was more bloodshed? Besides, I was making progress getting through to Brian. So I trusted my instincts.

When we got back to the apartment, I said: “Brian, you know I have to leave at 9:15 a.m. to see my daughter, don’t you?” I had repeatedly mentioned that I had to go to a church event at 10 a.m. to meet Paige. “Yes,” he replied. “But I need to rest here for a few days.”

I was happy for him to believe that was an option. He’d talked about giving himself up and facing the consequences of his actions. I dared to hope there would be a peaceful conclusion. Around an hour and a half later, after I’d cooked Brian a breakfast of pancakes, I headed for the front door. “Right, I’m going now, Brian,” I said softly. “I’m going to see Paige.”

“Is there anything I can do while you’re gone?” he said, looking at the unpacked boxes in the room. I thought quickly. “You can hang that for me, if you like,” I responded, pointing to a mirror that I’d planned to put up in the hallway.

I headed to my car. The minute I turned the corner, I grabbed my cellphone and dialed 911. “Brian Nichols took me hostage in my home for the last seven hours,” I said. “I need help.”

The police arrived within minutes. I took them to where Brian had hidden the truck to prove I was telling the truth. By the time we got back to the apartment complex, there were SWAT teams assembled and a helicopter overhead.

A few tense minutes later, Brian gave himself up. I watched behind the tinted window of a police car as an FBI agent led him away in handcuffs. For a second, I felt bad — like I’d betrayed him. But then I saw sense.

Since that day, I haven’t had contact with Brian, though I gave evidence at his trial in December 2008, where he received multiple life sentences but not the death penalty.

And true to my vow, I’ve been clean from drugs, sober now for 10 years. It wasn’t long before I was able to regain custody of Paige, and I’m now happily married to an old friend, Daniel Robinson, with whom I reconnected after being taken hostage. Paige is now 16, and we live with my stepdaughter, Riley, 14, and the son that Daniel and I share, Cole, 4.

I wrote a book about my experiences, “Unlikely Angel,” in late 2005, and was delighted to learn in 2013 that “Captive” would be filmed. I was deeply moved by the performance of Kate Mara, who plays me, and David Oyelowo, who does a fantastic job as Brian Nichols.

Things couldn’t be more different from the dark times. I’ve been on “Oprah” twice and am due to appear on her show on Sept. 19, about my recent first-time meeting with Brian’s mother, Claritha Nichols, who is a lovely Christian lady.

I haven’t any plans to meet Brian in jail — it still feels too soon for that. But if I saw him, the first thing I’d do is thank him for allowing God to let him spare my life.

And what a wonderful life I am leading now.