citizenship; family; drunk driving
May. 31st, 2010 09:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
solipsistnationThis afternoon I went out to get beer and chips and ended up a supporting cast member in another family's ongoing tragedy.
I pulled into the parking lot of the New Leaf market on Highway 9. It was a little crowded, and there was a car pulling out of a spot in front of me, on the left. It was pulling out slowly, which is understandable considering it's a busy lot and there were a couple of other cars maneuvering around in there.
The car was driven by a blond woman, hunched down and squinting over the wheel. I watched as she slowly crept backwards until her car was clear of the row of parked cars. She leaned forward and looked out the window gauging the distance between her bumper and the car ahead of her on the left. It looked like she planned to pull forward and out onto Highway 9. Apparently deciding she had enough room to turn, she hit the gas. Her car jumped forward and smacked into the other car. She paused for about a minute. Then, slowly, she backed up again, this time far enough to turn. Then she paused for something like 2 more minutes. This is where I got out a piece of paper and a pen and wrote down her license number and the make of the car. She aimed her car vaguely at the parking lot exit and rolled forward slowly, still hunched behind the wheel. She had greasy blond hair, a little greasy. She didn't seem to be looking at anything. She hit the gas. So did I, since she was aiming for the back quarter of my car. She passed it by about six inches, and would have hit me if I hadn't been paying attention. I pulled into the spot she'd vacated and called 911.
I've been lucky enough never to have called 911 before, but I've seen enough TV to know what to do. "I want to report a drunk driver." I gave her info (barring which way she'd turned onto Highway 9 since I hadn't seen it) and my own number. The operator thanked me and I hung up. I expected that to be it.
I checked the car she'd struck-- it had a big dent on the fender and some paint had rubbed off. Okay, so I wrote a note with the details and my cell number and stuck it under the wiper. Then I went in to get chips and beer. While checking out, I realized I could ask the checker about it. I asked if she knew who drove the car that had been hit, and she didn't, but she got on the store PA and asked for the person who did to come to the front of the store. A couple of minutes later, a worried-looking girl walked up and asked what was wrong. I told the story again and we went out to check out the damage.
Well, it turned out the big dent had already been there, but there was paint. We were talking when a CHP car pulled up. So I told the story a third time, this time as an actual statement. The officer took notes and took my number and told me I was all set and could leave.
I got home ten minutes or so later, still a little shaken. I told the story a fourth time, and as I was going to mix up the dip (french onion!) my cell rang. It was the CHP officer.
He wanted to know if I could come and identify the person. Since he hadn't been present, he needed the witness (me) to give a positive ID. They were at her house. She was about halfway between home and New Leaf. Sure, I said, give me five or ten minutes.
I got to the address-- it was pretty obvious which house it was, since there was a CHP cruiser and a Sheriff's car out front. No police were in sight, though. I parked a few houses up the street and tentatively walked back. The car from the parking lot was parked more-or-less in the driveway, at an angle, two tires on the lawn.
"Hey," said a man maybe ten years older than me as I walked up, "are you the witness?"
At this point I wasn't sure what to expect. Was it going to be a belligerent drunkard defending his drunkard family or friend? Would they be violent? Would they write down MY license number for later retribution? Would I be greeted by some kind of San Lorenzo Valley freakout? Or would they just be sullen and accusing, knowing I was responsible for the arrest of their beloved daughter/wife/sister/girlfriend?
I didn't really expect to be thanked.
The man took me aside. Thanks, he said, for calling this in. This wasn't the first time his sister-in-law had had issues with alcohol. It wasn't even the fifth or tenth. It had been 15 years or longer of on-and-off problems. He was glad she was being arrested. The woman's mother watched from the porch. There was a definite resemblance, and she didn't look happy, but if she was mad it wasn't at me. "Maybe this will be enough for her to finally get the right help."
The sheriff and CHP officer were helping the woman from the car out onto the porch. She was hunched over still. She didn't look up. She could barely walk. I don't know how she could have gotten to the car, let alone driven. The officers looked down at me, on the street. I nodded back at them. Yep, that was her.
"She was on lithium a couple of years ago," said her brother-in-law. "It worked, and she was getting her life back together, but she just stopped taking it. Mostly she's not too bad, but then something happens and she's behind the wheel again. Usually she just drives somewhere and passes out for two or three days."
I nodded and made sympathetic noises. "She has a son," he said.
I shuddered. I had been thinking of my own son when I called 911. I don't want drunk people on the roads where I drive my baby around. Sober California drivers are bad enough.
"Fifteen years ago," said the man, voice lowered, "I was driving up Highway 9 and saw her there. She had her baby strapped into the car seat in back and she had a flat tire, and she'd been driving on it long enough that they were on fire. I came home and called the police."
The CHP officer was trying to get the woman to make eye contact. She couldn't lift her head. Finally he cuffed her and he and the Sheriff wrangled her into the back seat of the CHP cruiser. The Sheriff held out his hand to keep her from hitting her head on the car door. She probably wouldn't have noticed if she had. She still didn't look up.
I said something about being glad I'd trusted my gut and called her in. "Yes," said the man. "It's always the right thing to do." I made vague noises about it being the police. "Better the police than the coroner," said the man. I nodded.
The CHP officer called me over. He talked a bit about it being a little more complicated because he wasn't a witness, but thanked me for coming out to identify her. He said it made it all much less complicated. He was holding her license and the registration from her car. He was tall and very thin. He seemed like a friendly but reserved fellow, the kind of person who has a weird dry sense of humor that doesn't come out until he knows you really well. It's a small community here. The man I'd been talking to knew him by name. "That's Officer Crouch. You've never met him before?" Well, no.
Officer Crouch talked a little about citizen's arrests and witnesses and then said I was all set and could go. I thanked him for showing up so quickly.
On the way back by, I wished the man luck with his sister-in-law. He smiled and nodded, a bit ruefully. I think he knows it'll just happen again, maybe a few years later. Maybe next time it _will_ be the coroner calling. Or the police will be there to arrest her not just for drunk driving but vehicular manslaughter or whatever. I don't like to guess, but I think I know which he'd prefer.
I went home and hugged Nikki and hugged my baby and started the charcoal and had a beer, well aware of how ironic it is to call in a drunk driver with my own trunk full of beer. It was in back, though, and never got near the front seat. I watched the grill heat up for a while.
I pulled into the parking lot of the New Leaf market on Highway 9. It was a little crowded, and there was a car pulling out of a spot in front of me, on the left. It was pulling out slowly, which is understandable considering it's a busy lot and there were a couple of other cars maneuvering around in there.
The car was driven by a blond woman, hunched down and squinting over the wheel. I watched as she slowly crept backwards until her car was clear of the row of parked cars. She leaned forward and looked out the window gauging the distance between her bumper and the car ahead of her on the left. It looked like she planned to pull forward and out onto Highway 9. Apparently deciding she had enough room to turn, she hit the gas. Her car jumped forward and smacked into the other car. She paused for about a minute. Then, slowly, she backed up again, this time far enough to turn. Then she paused for something like 2 more minutes. This is where I got out a piece of paper and a pen and wrote down her license number and the make of the car. She aimed her car vaguely at the parking lot exit and rolled forward slowly, still hunched behind the wheel. She had greasy blond hair, a little greasy. She didn't seem to be looking at anything. She hit the gas. So did I, since she was aiming for the back quarter of my car. She passed it by about six inches, and would have hit me if I hadn't been paying attention. I pulled into the spot she'd vacated and called 911.
I've been lucky enough never to have called 911 before, but I've seen enough TV to know what to do. "I want to report a drunk driver." I gave her info (barring which way she'd turned onto Highway 9 since I hadn't seen it) and my own number. The operator thanked me and I hung up. I expected that to be it.
I checked the car she'd struck-- it had a big dent on the fender and some paint had rubbed off. Okay, so I wrote a note with the details and my cell number and stuck it under the wiper. Then I went in to get chips and beer. While checking out, I realized I could ask the checker about it. I asked if she knew who drove the car that had been hit, and she didn't, but she got on the store PA and asked for the person who did to come to the front of the store. A couple of minutes later, a worried-looking girl walked up and asked what was wrong. I told the story again and we went out to check out the damage.
Well, it turned out the big dent had already been there, but there was paint. We were talking when a CHP car pulled up. So I told the story a third time, this time as an actual statement. The officer took notes and took my number and told me I was all set and could leave.
I got home ten minutes or so later, still a little shaken. I told the story a fourth time, and as I was going to mix up the dip (french onion!) my cell rang. It was the CHP officer.
He wanted to know if I could come and identify the person. Since he hadn't been present, he needed the witness (me) to give a positive ID. They were at her house. She was about halfway between home and New Leaf. Sure, I said, give me five or ten minutes.
I got to the address-- it was pretty obvious which house it was, since there was a CHP cruiser and a Sheriff's car out front. No police were in sight, though. I parked a few houses up the street and tentatively walked back. The car from the parking lot was parked more-or-less in the driveway, at an angle, two tires on the lawn.
"Hey," said a man maybe ten years older than me as I walked up, "are you the witness?"
At this point I wasn't sure what to expect. Was it going to be a belligerent drunkard defending his drunkard family or friend? Would they be violent? Would they write down MY license number for later retribution? Would I be greeted by some kind of San Lorenzo Valley freakout? Or would they just be sullen and accusing, knowing I was responsible for the arrest of their beloved daughter/wife/sister/girlfriend?
I didn't really expect to be thanked.
The man took me aside. Thanks, he said, for calling this in. This wasn't the first time his sister-in-law had had issues with alcohol. It wasn't even the fifth or tenth. It had been 15 years or longer of on-and-off problems. He was glad she was being arrested. The woman's mother watched from the porch. There was a definite resemblance, and she didn't look happy, but if she was mad it wasn't at me. "Maybe this will be enough for her to finally get the right help."
The sheriff and CHP officer were helping the woman from the car out onto the porch. She was hunched over still. She didn't look up. She could barely walk. I don't know how she could have gotten to the car, let alone driven. The officers looked down at me, on the street. I nodded back at them. Yep, that was her.
"She was on lithium a couple of years ago," said her brother-in-law. "It worked, and she was getting her life back together, but she just stopped taking it. Mostly she's not too bad, but then something happens and she's behind the wheel again. Usually she just drives somewhere and passes out for two or three days."
I nodded and made sympathetic noises. "She has a son," he said.
I shuddered. I had been thinking of my own son when I called 911. I don't want drunk people on the roads where I drive my baby around. Sober California drivers are bad enough.
"Fifteen years ago," said the man, voice lowered, "I was driving up Highway 9 and saw her there. She had her baby strapped into the car seat in back and she had a flat tire, and she'd been driving on it long enough that they were on fire. I came home and called the police."
The CHP officer was trying to get the woman to make eye contact. She couldn't lift her head. Finally he cuffed her and he and the Sheriff wrangled her into the back seat of the CHP cruiser. The Sheriff held out his hand to keep her from hitting her head on the car door. She probably wouldn't have noticed if she had. She still didn't look up.
I said something about being glad I'd trusted my gut and called her in. "Yes," said the man. "It's always the right thing to do." I made vague noises about it being the police. "Better the police than the coroner," said the man. I nodded.
The CHP officer called me over. He talked a bit about it being a little more complicated because he wasn't a witness, but thanked me for coming out to identify her. He said it made it all much less complicated. He was holding her license and the registration from her car. He was tall and very thin. He seemed like a friendly but reserved fellow, the kind of person who has a weird dry sense of humor that doesn't come out until he knows you really well. It's a small community here. The man I'd been talking to knew him by name. "That's Officer Crouch. You've never met him before?" Well, no.
Officer Crouch talked a little about citizen's arrests and witnesses and then said I was all set and could go. I thanked him for showing up so quickly.
On the way back by, I wished the man luck with his sister-in-law. He smiled and nodded, a bit ruefully. I think he knows it'll just happen again, maybe a few years later. Maybe next time it _will_ be the coroner calling. Or the police will be there to arrest her not just for drunk driving but vehicular manslaughter or whatever. I don't like to guess, but I think I know which he'd prefer.
I went home and hugged Nikki and hugged my baby and started the charcoal and had a beer, well aware of how ironic it is to call in a drunk driver with my own trunk full of beer. It was in back, though, and never got near the front seat. I watched the grill heat up for a while.