The Brian Nichols case will stand still for
almost six more months.
That's six months the victims' families also
will stand still, waiting for justice and for answers. March 11,
2005, was most likely the worst day of their lives — three women
lost husbands, a daughter lost a mother and scores of others saw
their lives changed forever.
But the six-month reprieve also gives Brian Nichols' parents
time for hope — hope that their son will be allowed to plead
guilty in exchange for a life sentence for one of the state's
most horrifying killing sprees.
Last week, the judge in the death penalty
case against Nichols delayed jury selection — for a second time
because of a lack of funding for the defense — until Sept. 10.
"It would really be our prayers and hopes and
desires that all of this could be resolved without having to go
through the pain of a trial," Claritha Nichols, Brian Nichols'
mother, said in a recent interview.
Claritha and Gene Nichols say they have
always opposed the death penalty. Anything that guarantees that
won't happen, even if it means their son is sentenced to life
without parole, they can live with.
But Fulton County District Attorney Paul
Howard reiterated recently he would make no such deal. In a
written statement, the prosecutor said "any defendant, including
Mr. Nichols, can enter a guilty plea at any time. The state
[prosecutors] has no control over the decision of a defendant to
plead guilty." But, Howard said, a jury "and not the defense
should decide the appropriate punishment in this case."
The parents, however, hope that jury will see
the Brian Nichols they know and not the Brian Nichols of March
11, 2005 — an angry man accused of coldly killing four people.
Since that ignominious day, they say, he has
converted to Islam and prays six times a day. He reads
voraciously, consuming the Bible, the Quran, Nelson Mandela's
autobiography and the novels of James Patterson and Tom Clancy.
He is teaching himself Arabic and calculus and boning up on his
high school Spanish. He has become a long-distance math tutor
for his 15-year-old daughter, finally building a relationship
with the child he never got to know until after the shootings.
Contrasting portrayals
No doubt his more than two years in jail on
murder charges have changed Nichols in some ways. Yet the
picture of him that his parents paint — of a reformed and
remorseful man — is out of sync with some of his actions since
his arrest.
Jail officials contend he remains a conniving
and dangerous man. Eight months after Nichols' arrest, they
found letters suggesting he was plotting another escape, again
by overpowering a deputy. This time, the plan centered on
getting out of the jail instead of the courthouse and included
releasing other inmates. Authorities responded by intensifying
jail security around Nichols.
Then last fall, Nichols tried to make a
collect call to the woman he was on trial for raping when he
made his deadly escape. Prosecutors said Nichols intended "to
terrorize or intimidate" witnesses in his death penalty trial,
while his supporters suggested he wanted to make amends, as
required of Muslims.
And last month it was learned Nichols asked a
female friend to describe the parking lot and the outside of the
jail, causing officials to fear he was again looking for a way
to freedom.
'That is not our Brian'
Claritha and Gene Nichols say they don't know
"the Brian of March 11." They believe "something happened" —
like the "demon" Brian has said possessed him. They say it
caused him to escape custody that day and kill Judge Rowland
Barnes, court reporter Julie Ann Brandau and deputy Sgt. Hoyt
Teasley at the Fulton County Courthouse in downtown Atlanta and
U.S. Customs agent David Wilhelm in Buckhead.
"That is not our Brian," the mother says.
They say their son "realizes what's ahead" —
a possible murder conviction that could mean a death sentence.
They insist he feels grateful he lived long enough to seek
forgiveness.
Except for their visits, periodic meetings
with his lawyers and phone calls he makes from jail, their
35-year-old son enjoys no human interaction, the Nicholses say.
He is isolated from other inmates at the
DeKalb County Jail, where he is held pending trial. "Even the
guards don't talk to him," his mother says.
They say he's lonely and trying to make
amends with those he has wronged.
"He misses the feel of the wind on his face.
The smell of rain. Seeing trees," his mother said.
She stops and catches herself, thinking of
the victims. "It's really sad, but at least he still has his
life, and that's something the victims don't have," the mother
says. "I think about their lives and graduations and weddings
[the victims will miss] and just how much their [survivors']
lives have been affected by this."
Nichols faces 54 charges for the deaths of
four people and the assault of several others. Prospective
jurors have completed a multiple-page questionnaire but a jury
will not be seated until at least next fall.
The couple realizes the legal process may not
end with the Fulton trial. If the state fails to get a
conviction and a death sentence, federal authorities could bring
charges and also seek the death penalty for the shooting of the
federal officer, Wilhelm.
In the hours after police arrested Nichols
the morning of March 12, 2005, at a Duluth apartment complex
where he had allegedly held a woman hostage for several hours,
he reportedly told interrogators he felt like "a soldier on a
mission," standing up against a criminal justice system that is
unfair to African-Americans, when he began his rampage.
Apparently he still believes that. Gene
Nichols said sometimes his son talks of "how the laws are
slanted to entrap the black man [and] how some people put those
laws into effect."
Details too painful to hear
The Nicholses plan their week around visits
with their son, whom they see for 90 minutes every Thursday.
Before he is brought into the visiting room, deputies search
under the tables and chairs and inside ceiling tiles.
Then Nichols shuffles in. Leg irons restrict
his gait; five deputies surround him. He is left alone in the
room while he visits with his parents.
Gene Nichols is retired from insurance sales.
Claritha retired from the IRS but continues to work as a
consultant. They raised two boys — Brian and his older brother,
Mark, who is a barber.
They are a middle-aged, middle-class couple
in the middle of one of the state's most infamous murder cases —
and baffled by it all.
Glass separates them from their son, so they use a
telephone-type intercom system to communicate. Nichols contorts
his body to hold the telephone receiver to his ear because his
hands are chained to his waist.
For the most part, the family talks about
everyday things: what's happening in the world, friends,
memories. Certain their visits are monitored, the Nicholses keep
the conversations light.
"It's painful to see him in that situation,"
Claritha Nichols says. "He's concerned about what he's put us
through, as well as the other families."
Little by little, his parents are learning of the "Brian of
March 11." The day of the shootings, the couple was in Africa,
where Claritha was doing consulting work with the Tanzanian
Revenue Authority.
"We've never heard the complete story," Gene
Nichols says.
They don't know if they are ready to hear it
either.
"It would be absolutely devastating to hear
and see that our son did these things," Claritha Nichols says.
Though she is willing to see him plead
guilty, the mother clings to her image of the son she knew
before March 11: "The son who was so good and caring about other
people. It's just unbelievable."