My name is Ashley Smith. My husband is former Montgomery Police Officer A. C. Smith, who was involved in a self-defense shooting that took place while he was on-duty for the City of Montgomery in 2016. After a years-long wrongful prosecution by our state led to a manslaughter conviction – handed down by a confused and poorly instructed jury in 2019 – my husband was sentenced to 14 years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. He would serve nearly two years of that sentence at Limestone Correctional Facility starting in 2022, leaving me and our three girls (ages one, six and nine) behind.
As Alabama’s May 19 primary election draws near, I find myself in hopeful anticipation of its outcome. But if I’m being completely honest, I never really dabbled in politics until I didn’t have a choice. Even now, I’m not overly fond of politics as I watch some of our candidates continue hiding behind plausible deniability as they wash the dirt off their hands in a sink of carefully-crafted talking points.
For most people, politics is a matter of preference – red or blue, policy or personality. For me, it’s far more personal. It becomes real the moment decisions made behind closed doors ripple into your life, your family, and your future.
I didn’t step into this space because I wanted to debate headlines or argue party lines. I stepped into it because I lived what happens when the people entrusted to pursue justice pursue outcomes instead, and when the system that’s supposed to protect the innocent becomes comfortable explaining them away.
My husband was a law enforcement officer. He did the job he was trained to do – one that requires split-second decisions, courage, and trust in a system that promises to stand behind you when those decisions are made in good faith.
But instead of being supported, my husband was prosecuted. Not quietly, not fairly, but publicly – and, we believe, for reasons that had more to do with politics than justice.
We watched as a narrative was built, piece by piece, while the truth struggled to catch up. We sat through a process where the outcome often felt predetermined, and the weight of public pressure and political ambition seemed to outweigh the pursuit of the facts. And when it was all said and done, the consequences didn’t fall on the people who made those decisions – they fell on us. Our family. Our future. Our lives.
Yet when questions are raised about cases like ours, the responses are painfully predictable:
“It wasn’t my office.”
“That decision was made elsewhere.”
“We followed procedure.”
It’s a cycle of deflection so polished it almost sounds reasonable – until you realize that everyone involved is somehow just far enough removed to avoid responsibility, but close enough to benefit from the outcome. Each statement is another rinse cycle in the same sink, cleaning just enough to avoid blame, but never enough to reveal the truth. Because if everyone can point somewhere else, then no one must answer for what happened. And if no one must answer, then nothing ever really changes.
I’m not writing this because I suddenly developed an interest in politics. I’m writing this because I’ve seen what happens when people entrusted with power operate without real accountability and the cost of doing wrong isn’t carried by the wrongdoer.
I’m also writing this because my husband is no longer behind a badge – he’s behind a mission, one focused on making sure that what happened to our family doesn’t happen to others.
After Justice Jay Mitchell’s opinion at the Alabama Supreme Court helped bring relief in my husband's case, the state ultimately arranged his release from prison. While we are grateful to have him home with our family, my husband is troubled by the condition of our state. There’s a severe staffing shortage in the department he once loved and for which he nearly gave his life. The streets of Montgomery are riddled with crime, and multiple officers across Alabama are facing unjust prosecutions.
It became clear it was time to get involved – to give purpose to the pain and suffering our family endured – to speak up and engage with leaders across our state in pursuit of meaningful change.
Leadership isn’t proven in press releases or campaign speeches. It’s proven in the moments when something goes wrong and it would be easier to deflect than to take responsibility. It’s proven when leaders are willing to step forward and say, “This happened. It matters. And I’m accountable for making it right.”
But choosing to recognize that authority without accountability is not leadership.
Until we start demanding accountability from those who seek to lead this state, we will continue to see the same pattern – clean hands presented to the public, while the truth remains buried beneath the surface.
I’ve learned that when good, ordinary people stay quiet, other people decide the outcome for them. That’s why this moment matters. Not just for me, not just for my family – but for every community across Alabama that will live with the consequences of the leaders we choose.
Elections are decisions that shape our courts, our safety, our trust in justice, and the future we hand to our children. Change doesn’t come from the sidelines. It comes from people who decide they can’t sit this one out.
So as Alabama heads into this primary election, I’m asking you – not as a politician, but as a citizen, as a wife and a mother – don’t look away. Pay attention. Ask the hard questions. Learn who these candidates really are beyond the slogans and the soundbites.
And then show up.
Because silence doesn’t protect us. Participation does.
Ashley Smith is a follower of Christ, a wife, and a mother to four children. In addition to raising a family, Ashley works as a realtor and loves helping buyers and sellers in the River Region achieve their real estate dreams.
The views and opinions expressed here are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the policy or position of 1819 News. To comment, please send an email with your name and contact information to [email protected].
Don’t miss out! Subscribe to our newsletter and get our top stories every weekday morning.
