(Posted January 17, 2011)
January 4th. Two years ago. Driving my jet black Pacifica on Arrowhead Road. Driving my son Jack from indoor soccer at the College of St, Scholastica to church. Approaching U.S. No. 53, I glance up. The light is green. l look both ways, up and down the highway. There are large snow banks so I can’t see the highway all that well. Then there’s the fact that Arrowhead and 53 don’t intersect at right angles. There’s a slight mathematical deviation to their joinder which makes it difficult to see to the left, particularly over piled snow. But the light is green. I enter the crossing. A horn honks. And then, the most violent crash I’ve ever experienced sends our car into a complete spin. When the Pacifica finally stops moving, we’ve completed at least one full 360 dgree revolution in the highway, sustained three collisions (the initial blast from the offending vehicle just behind my driver’s door; our car striking the offending car front to rear during the spin; and the Pacifica crushing into the big steel light pole in the center media of the road, again, on my side of the car). Jack and I end up going by ambulance to the hospital. Minor injuries. Saved by the side airbag. Scared the crap out of Jack (and me, if truth be told. I still have PTSD entering any intersection on Highway 53). Jack sustained a hernia (from the seat belt) and a huge fear of riding in the car. I sustained a bruised left shoulder from the airbag and a strain to my neck and back. The Pacifica was totaled. My attorney and two insurance adjusters sent letters back and forth. Most of you have probably experienced the drill. I hadn’t, at least not outside my position as a judge. Being the victim (the young driver was drunk at 10:00 am on a Sunday morning and never slowed from her highway speed of 50-60mph when running the red light) was a role I hadn’t experienced. The St. Louis County Attorney had to farm out the girl’s case to Itasca County due to a potential conflict of interest. Same thing with the judge; John Maturi from Grand Rapids came down to accept the girl’s guilty plea. After a month of driving a rental car, I found a replacement vehicle. Jack’s nerves seemed to heal (though his school work suffered mightily for a long time) and we both were able to put the accident behind us. Until yesterday.
A bright, cold sunny Sunday morning. Jack and I are leaving the College of St. Scholastica after an indoor soccer game. I’m driving a white Chrysler Pacifica (I’m loyal to the model since it saved my life in the 2009 collision). As I’m pulling up to the stoplight at College and Kenwood, intent on making a left turn to go to the St. Louis County Jail to do bail settings (my weekend to do so as judge), I watch a white sedan make a right hand turn from Kenwood onto College. Nothing out of the ordinary except the elderly lady who is driving has chosen to use my lane, not her own, to complete the turn. I can see her, and her two elderly female passengers, through the windshield as plain as day. She’s looking right at me. There’s not a hint of recognition that she’s in the wrong lane or that a collision is imminent.
“What the hell!”
Jack’s expression is cloaked in the fear of past disaster.
“She’s not going to stop!”
My comment is fortuitous. I slam the steering wheel hard to the right to avoid a head on collision. The offending car crashes into the left front of my Pacifica’s grill. My car skids to a stop, the entire lower section of my bumper seared from the car, the sound of crunching plastic and glass brittle in the below zero cold.
Jack goes ballistic. He tries to get out of the car to scream at the woman. I admonish him before I exit the driver’s door.
“I am so sorry,” the woman says, standing next to the crumpled front end of my car. Her little Chevrolet Lumina is only slightly dented. The front end of my Pacifica is destroyed. “Is anyone hurt?”
“No, ma’am. But my son is freaking out. Two years ago, almost to the day, coming from Scholastica after a soccer game, a drunk driver hit us and nearly killed us.”
“I am so sorry. Here’s my insurance information,” she says, handing my an envelope. “I’m Sister Beverly.”
Oh Lord, I think. God is getting even with me for Grandpa Kobe leaving the Catholic Church over eighty years ago.
I don’t have my cell phone so I ask a passing gawker to dial 911.
I sure as hell don’t want to have pit my credibility against one of Christ’s brides if this thing goes to court.
“Is it really necessary to call the police?”
“Yes, Sister, I’m afraid it is.”
“My friends were going to mass. Can I take them and come back?”
I look at the old woman and nod.
An hour later, the police paperwork is completed, the remnants of my front bumper are secured in the cargo area of the Pacifica, and we’re on our way.
I think Jack needs to find something to replace indoor soccer during the winter, I think as my disfigured Pacifica rattles towards church.
Peace.
Mark
