Once again, here is the real evidence in the form of a picture. Notice the busted windshield. Do you see its flaw? Do you see its cracked web of deceit on the passenger’s side? Ask yourself, "Is the writer telling the whole truth, or is something missing?" Maybe he should’ve been sent to prison. Where is his original statement?
I eased up on the gas. The other construction worker (there
were two of them) ran into the ditch and helped his friend to his feet. He had
a noticeable limp. “Now what?” Scott asked.
When you make split second decisions out of anger there are no
long-term solutions to rectify the situation; there are only short-term fixes,
last minute scramblings to avoid going to prison. I’ll admit things did not
look good for me. I had a busted front windshield and would more than likely be
charged with a hit and run, and if I begged to explain myself, I’m sure my
defense attorney would cringe and advise me not to say a word. But here’s what
really happened:
We traveled in silence along Rochester Road, heading back to
my parents’ house. I had been driving the speed limit, when out of nowhere this
truck appeared behind us, its bright lights invading the interior of my car and
disturbing the night’s tranquility. “Who is this jerk,” I said into my rearview
mirror. The truck passed us, and for some unknown reason, perhaps on impulse, I
switched on my brights. “See how they like it,” I said to Scott.
They didn’t. They slowed their vehicle to a crawl, and every
time I tried to pass, they sped up or veered towards the centerline. Then, as
luck would have it, Scott recognized them. They were brothers, he explained,
Joe and Bubba Hartley. “Pull over, Jim. I’ll talk to them.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
Just to be safe, I hit the electronic door locks. When they
approached on foot, Scott started talking. They knew him, but they weren’t in
the mood for friendly conversation. Bubba placed himself behind my car, while
Joe stood in front of it. “Get out of the car!” Joe said.
“You obviously don’t know these guys very well,” I said to
Scott.
They kept yelling at me, so I turned my stereo on real loud
to drown out their demands. Then it happened. Joe, the guy in the front, took
his hard-hat and smashed my front windshield. “Oh man,” I said, “you’re gonna
pay for that!”
“That’ll teach you to mess with us,” he said.
I’ve already told you what happens next. It’s all creative
nonfiction as far as I’m concerned.
When we arrived at my parents’ house, I decided to call the
Michigan State Police. I felt I had no other choice. It was a risky decision,
but hopefully I’d survive unscathed. Of course, like most criminal minds, my
story changes.
“So, you accidentally hit the one guy because you were
trying to get away?” the senior officer asked.
“That is correct,” I said.
