White Car

by

Dominique Bretin

Published by Arlington Literary Journal

A distant friend sent a Facebook message asking me how it happened that I was in jail. He inquired how I spend my time and if I have regrets. My response to him was simple. I told him I always wanted to paint, and now, as part of my therapy, it is a luxury that's come to me purely by accident.

It began one night after a party. Usually, my husband Lyndon took the wheel of our Toyota Tacoma. I seldom minded. I'd sit shotgun, watching the other people on San Diego's congested freeways, all going in various directions to various jobs. Like arteries—cells pumping—the highways bursting with energy. God knew you had to work hard to live in a sunny environment. In my work, I created and sold jewelry at county fairs. Each necklace, a copper, hand-fired enameled cross with chain, took an hour to make. I injured my fingers more than once when they came too close to the hot metal. I don't miss that, nor those overcrowded freeways.

That night, we'd been drinking, and Lyndon, busy talking about his latest money-making scheme—none of which ever panned out— deferred the liability of driving to me. We were on our way home, traveling in the left lane of a two-lane exit ramp a few blocks off Genesee Avenue. It was dark, the street lighting dim. We had just passed the intersection with the main road when a man, wearing a brown bomber jacket, staggered out from the shoulder into the middle of the street. At the same time, a white car coming up fast on our left hit him like he was nothing but a paper doll, hurling his body high into the air. I slammed the brakes and swerved to avoid hitting him before he came down with a CRACK, hitting the pavement so hard that it remains a sound I will never forget. The white sedan sped right through the red light like a bullet and never stopped. I only caught a glimmer of red taillights disappearing into the darkness and could not read the license plate or the make and model of the car.

I pulled over to the shoulder and checked my rearview mirror to establish the man's condition. Now a slumped heap of bones hunched on the roadway, his body began to move. He lifted himself on one arm. Under the streetlight, I saw his jacket. Except for the missing Pearl Harbor decal on the sleeve, it was like the one my father had willed to me when he died. It wasn't something I ever wanted. Inside one of the pockets, I'd found a matchbook from a strip joint, Dancing Girls Galore. My father scribbled the name Lilly and a telephone number on it. My mother, never taking him to task, wouldn't have been surprised. Living with a man who could love you and equally mistreat you, she had adapted to a manner of silence. Her life became angry, always complaining about everything and everyone—even me. I understood. I had never confronted my dad either. He'd just put you down, demean you like you had no right being alive. Well, the jacket never fit me, and a month after his death, I dropped it at the Salvation Army. That night, it seemed an odd reminder to see that same worthless coat left to me by such a heartless man. I had to believe the injured man crawling helplessly and motioning for help was different and perhaps more deserving of kindness.

"We should go back," I said, "we can't just leave him like that."

"We haven't done anything. The cops will come." Lyndon said.

"But he looks like he needs help now."

"Well, it can't be us, Kathy."

Maybe Lyndon was right—being protective, helping me see another side. Maybe like my dad, the guy was just a drunk, but still—

"We should call 911," I insisted.

"Well, that would be stupid," he said like I was dumber than a doornail, "we'd be pointing a giant arrow at ourselves. And then, what if they take a breathalyzer? Did ya' ever think of that, Kathy? Now, just drive!"

Yes, it seemed logical to go, but it wasn't right to leave him to die. I rolled down the window and heard a low voice cry, "Oh my God!"

The man held himself up, eying the back of our truck. The voice I heard hadn't come from his direction. I rolled the window back up, wondering what to do.

Lyndon pounded the dash. "Get going! It's not our problem—go! Move the damn car NOW! How will you work if they arrest you?" He had a point. I conceded.

I had the Orange County Fair coming up and enough website orders to keep three people busy. Those Evangelical types flocked to my booth. They admired the cross pendants I designed. It worked like magic whenever I said double-fired. They must have believed those crosses would protect them against all that fire and brimstone. I was fortunate for their business, especially the sweet bun ladies who wore those pretty prairie skirts. What would they think if I went to jail for drunken driving? I didn't care much about Jesus, but I needed their business, especially with Lyndon constantly nagging about how we needed more money. I was upset when he made excuses why he couldn't go and find a job. But without him, I'd have to hire someone else to do the books, packing, and unpacking at the fairs. Of course, I also counted on him to make those important business calls, but still, he had plenty of extra time to find a real job.

Sometimes I wanted my freedom from him so bad I could taste it, but I didn't like to be alone. As my father's daughter, I'd learned to be loyal, despite how cruel he was around my mother and me. I'd convinced myself it was better than having no father at all. I told myself that about Lyndon.

And sometimes, it's a curveball you don't see coming, especially that night on Genesee Avenue. When I moved the truck into gear and pressed the accelerator, leaving that poor man to writhe on that unforgiving pavement, it was the total weight of my wrongdoing.

We hadn't gone far when Lyndon said he needed a Coke from the 7-Eleven to help sober him up. I was thirsty too, but it seemed like a bad idea. We got our drinks, and Lyndon suggested we change drivers. We headed to the on-ramp going north on Interstate 5. Lyndon put on a James Taylor CD, and we cruised, sure that our problems were behind us—until we got home. Happy to arrive safely, Lyndon pulled a little too fast into the driveway. He swiped the front fender on the palm tree next to the walkway. Lyndon got a cloth and some Windex from inside the garage to wipe it down and check the damage. I hoped he might get around to washing the rest of it in the morning but highly doubted it. Then both of us, being tired, went straight to bed.

And so, it is odd sometimes how bad luck knows how to find you. Things rarely go as expected—especially when one has surrendered good judgment for self-interest and bad advice based chiefly on a general disregard for others.

Barely two days later, a knock came at our door. Two San Diego Police officers walked into our dining room and looked me sternly in the eye, each in a dark blue shirt and pants, their guns in tidy black leather holsters. Lyndon was still upstairs in bed watching FOX News, an information source—he thinks—essential to his survival. He said he had worked once as a reporter, but I don't know if that was true. It was hard to imagine Lyndon ever getting up in time to hold a regular job. His only 'talent' was blathering on about politics and topical news items. Sometimes, with that loose bottom lip of his, he would bloviate about this or that—so sure he was right—he'd heard it on FOX. It must be true. Whenever he'd start on a subject, I could never get a word in edgewise. Sometimes I thought he liked lording his superiority and tallness over me. Well, right then, I chose to let him respond to the police. I didn't want to mention something and be blamed for it later. I'd just tell the truth, but he might argue I'd said it the wrong way. No, I'd give him no reason to swagger more bully on me.

The dogs barked out on the patio. I yelled up the stairway. "Lyndon, you need to come down. Someone's here to see us."

He blustered out, still in boxers, his belly poking out from under his too-short t-shirt. His face paled when he saw the two young men in blue standing in our hall. One was even a bit taller than Lyndon. He knew they weren't here to pick up an order. Midway down the stairs, he said, "Is there some kind of problem?"

The two cops, holding notepads, gave each other a look. Finally, one of them said, "If you would like to take a minute to change, we would like to ask you some questions." Then one of the officers went out to take some pictures of our truck in the driveway. Lyndon threw on a pair of sweats and a longer t-shirt. I'd never seen him move so fast.

"Mr. Fowler, do you and your wife own the truck parked outside?"

"Yes, sir, we do." He said.

"Were you driving it in the vicinity of Genesee Avenue on the night of August 4?"

"I can't remember exactly."

"Well, we have matched your truck to one identified in a hit and run accident. We'd like to take you downtown for questioning if you don't mind." The officer said it all nice-like, but we didn't have much choice. They recorded our truck outside the 7-Eleven. I guess they have videos outside as well as inside. And oh, how I wished we hadn't stopped for that Coke, but I tried not to worry because I knew we were innocent. I asked a moment to call a neighbor to look in on the dogs. They told us to lock up and helped us into the back of their cruiser.

When we arrived at the station, the detectives questioned us. They asked who was driving that night.

Lyndon answered matter-of-factly. "My wife."

"Mrs. Fowler, do you know a man named Albert Coin?"

"No, Sir, I don't."

"He is in San Diego General Hospital recovering from serious injuries. He claims it was a blue Toyota truck that struck him."

I began to feel queasy, like when your skin tightens and pumps adrenalin into your nerve endings. The spirit of the man in the bomber jacket had come back to haunt me. I recalled the vision, his arm reaching up for help and my foot hard on that pedal—driving away against good judgment.

With the questions coming hard and fast, Lyndon stood over my chair, pressing his fingers into my shoulder, a cue to let him do the talking.

"We have video of a truck with your license plate leaving a 7-Eleven near the vicinity of the accident. Were you at the intersection of 10th and Colburn?"

"I don't remember," Lyndon replied.

"How 'bout you, Mrs. Fowler?"

"No." I wanted to mention the white car but assumed Lyndon would explain.

"They stared at Lyndon, waiting for him to say something.

"We went through there on our way home but saw nothing out of the ordinary." It puzzled me why Lyndon wasn't mentioning the white car.

"The video has you, Mr. Fowler, behind the wheel as you left the convenience store."

The detective continued his battery of questions. Then he picked up some photos off his desk. "How did you get this dent on your fender?"

Lyndon said, "Just a fender-bender."

"Why is the vehicle conveniently wiped clean only in this area of the fender?"

"Oh, that was to see how bad it was damaged."

The detective turned to face me. "Mrs. Fowler, leaving the scene of an accident which involves injury, is a felony under California Vehicle Code 20001-A. We'll need to take you into custody." Lyndon said nothing.

I felt sick, jitters settling into my gut. How did it happen so fast? They took me down some corridors to a holding cell with two other women. One was missing a front tooth, and the other, a short Hispanic woman, showed me tattoos of butterflies on her arms. They set bail at $15,000. I stayed quiet until Lyndon returned with $1,200, our portion of it. I was grateful to be released, but since the police had my truck, we had to ride home on the Coaster. I'd paid my fees for the Orange County Fair, and now it would cost extra to rent another truck to work the show. I told Lyndon to find me a lawyer.

Two weeks later, they arraigned me. I pleaded not guilty since that was the truth. It had been difficult enough to post the bailout of our savings, and Lyndon said it would cost another $10,000 to retain a lawyer. We didn't have that kind of money, so Lyndon suggested we defend ourselves. No surprise, he'd seen it done on FOX. The judge found probable cause to charge me with a crime at the preliminary hearing. Since I was the driver, they assumed my guilt. After my hearing, they set a date for my trial. Lyndon assured me he would come up with a plan.

I was partly shocked but mainly worried about how to get through the day. And there was that small dent on the truck. When Lyndon wiped only the damaged spot, leaving the rest of it with a layer of dirt, it was as though he had pointed a big arrow at the vehicle, saying, Look! She did it! I was innocent, but no one believed me, especially Albert Coin.

I should have run when I met Lyndon eight years earlier. But I was thirty-two and didn't want to be alone and unmarried. My father knew that's how I'd end up. He'd badger me, predicting I'd become an old maid. He mocked my strawberry hair and called me chubby. He was sure I'd never get a man. He made me feel ugly and unwanted. And yet, there were a few times I did feel wanted—like when Bobby Spencer took me to the outdoor movie. We laid down in the backseat of his car for a brief interlude. He nick-named me Peaches for the tiny peach tattoo on my thigh. Sometimes I like to look at it or touch it as a reminder of that long-ago night. When I got older, I started to believe my dad—that I might never find a man to marry. But I guess I proved him wrong. I found Lyndon—a man cursed with unlimited potential. I became his meal ticket and had grown accustomed to our situation.

Time passed slowly during the three-month wait for trial. I felt uninspired, what with the worry and all. I couldn't concentrate on work. My customers, unhappy about their wait time on orders, were tired of hearing me say next week, for sure. I suppose Jesus doesn't promote patience. I half-thought I might turn my luck around by wearing one of my own cross pendants. Maybe I could find the protection, and God would wash this trouble away. But no, I never did much believe in heaven. Right now, hell was a possibility, but not heaven. If I lived with Lyndon, my chance for happiness was slim. I had hoped for a kid or two, but we discovered Lyndon was sterile when I didn't get pregnant. He blamed his lost masculinity on his diabetes, and it caused me to feel sorry for him. Unfortunately, he became a blowhard, just like my dad. I should have left, but I learned to be loyal. There was always one more get-rich-quick idea he'd liked to try. But when it failed, he'd blame me. I'd come home tired, and Lyndon expected me to cook his dinner. I guess the TV and diabetes must have worn him out. I'd get mad when he wouldn't fix the washing machine. It costs money for a repair man. Yes, I could've left him, but I took that oath till death do us part.

While we waited for the trial date, Lyndon did some legal research on the internet and found it a bad idea to represent himself. Then, I discovered we qualified for legal aid. We found a decent but not too sharp public defender who always hurried us to get to his next meeting. We—mostly Lyndon—had decided to stick with the story that we didn't see anything, and that's what we told the lawyers in our pre-trial witness statements. Lyndon conferred that we were innocent, so a little white lie here and there was acceptable. He told me not to mention the other car because it would tip them off that we had witnessed something.

"Stick to the story," he said. "Keep it simple. Say we didn't see anything because we weren't there, and it seems like that Albert guy is in bad shape in the hospital with no way of getting to the courthouse. Without him, they got nothing."

"Why would that matter?" I asked. "We didn't do it. I'd like to tell the truth—that we only stopped to see if he was alright. Just the truth that we didn't hit him."

"That's right, Kathy, we didn't hit him." For once, we agreed. Lyndon had a point. In America, you could count on justice, especially if you were innocent. A jury would see right through it; anyway, it was too late to change course. I partly blamed myself, and that frustration allowed Lyndon to take charge. I wanted this mess to disappear because I had work to do, and sitting in jail was the last thing we needed.

On the day of the trial, I made Lyndon get up early and put on decent clothes like khakis and close-toed shoes. In the hallway of the courthouse in downtown San Diego, we waited for our attorney while other lawyers in dark suits holding briefcases paced down the halls sipping lattés from Starbucks. People gathered in the hallway; some dressed in ordinary clothes, a dirty man wearing ragged layers, and a group of teens in hoodies. They waited for the doors to open. Finally, our young attorney showed up, and we went in.

The inside of the courtroom appeared like a church interior with paneled walls and rows of benches separated by a front pew. I saw the ragged man make a beeline to a seat in a far corner. The judge and the jury took their seats in the front section: the judge at the podium in the middle, just like a preacher, and the jury seated to his side like a choir, but there was no singing. I sat beside my attorney at a long table near the front while the prosecution questioned police and other expert witnesses. The ragged man now slumped, had fallen asleep in his seat. We had decided only Lyndon should testify. He would be more convincing, and we didn't want our stories to get crossed. It gave me hope when I saw a female prosecutor. She wore a skirt with a men's dark blazer, her hair cut short in a bob. I expected a woman would have more empathy for me. Eventually, she called Lyndon to the stand for cross-examination.

"Mr. Fowler, were you driving a blue Toyota Tacoma on the night of August 4, 2013, on or around Genesee Avenue?"

"No, Ma'am, my wife was driving. We had just left the house of a friend."

"And you were unaware that your car hit a pedestrian?" Our lawyer objected, but Lyndon continued.

"We didn't see anything. We saw nothing. It was dark when we exited I-5. It must have happened after we had gone by."

Lyndon had put his hand on the Bible. He'd sworn to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth. And even though we were innocent, I knew he had lied. I hoped the jury couldn't tell. We had seen the man, and I wished he'd said something else. His white lie didn't seem so minor anymore. If you swore to it, you were supposed to tell the truth, especially with your hand on the Bible. And wasn't it an odd thing too—a Bible loaded with religious doctrine held out in a court of law? What did that have to do with anything? Well, it certainly did not influence Lyndon. He watched too much TV, and those people always lied and got away with it.

The lawyer continued. "How do you explain the small dent on the right fender of your truck?"

Now here, Lyndon told the honest-to-God truth. "I hit the palm tree near the left of our driveway when I pulled in that night."

"Mr. Fowler, am I mistaken? You said that your wife was driving that night?"

"We changed drivers after we stopped at the 7-Eleven."

The lawyer looked at the jury for a moment with her head tilted to the right, her eyebrows scrunched together, and then looked back at Lyndon, dramatic-like.

"I see. And this is a driveway you use regularly?" Lyndon said yes. She kept on like a bulldog." And what was the reason that compelled you, Mr. Fowler, to change drivers when you were still quite a distance from home?"

She wanted the jury to think he was lying and that we were upset after hitting the man. Except for admitting that we were drunk, he was telling the truth. But she didn't ask that. I looked at some of the jurors. A heavyset man with a handlebar mustache squirmed in his seat, and the young woman sitting next to him had her hair pulled up tight into a ponytail, loose pieces pointed out in odd angles. She nodded in agreement every time the lady lawyer spoke. It was going badly as they cast doubtful looks toward me. With all her needling questions, we began to look suspicious. I didn't want to go along with Lyndon. I needed to do something, just like when the dryer hose broke—I took the tools and fixed it myself.

When the questioning neared the end, the lady prosecutor motioned our lawyer to join her at the judge's bench. They talked so no one else could hear, which I thought was rude. When they were through, the judge announced that a previously unavailable witness of the accident had agreed to testify. Though it was unusual, the judge allowed her testimony. He added that our lawyer had agreed and that we would be allowed an opportunity for rebuttal. Everyone's head turned towards the back of the courtroom to see who it was, just like I'd seen them do on Perry Mason re-runs.

The afternoon sun streamed through two small transom windows above the jury pews. The security guard had stepped forward of the judge's box and assumed a wide-legged stance of preparedness. When the doors opened, a woman entered, pushing a man in a wheelchair. One of his legs extended out in front of him in a brace. His hands fell limply at his sides, and his head tilted to one side. Bandages falling low on his eyebrows covered his head, and he wore a patch on his right eye. I had never seen the woman, but I recognized the man. He was Albert Coin.

The woman pushing his chair was thin, her skin ashen. She wore a pair of patterned leggings with a long olive-green sweatshirt. The top looked new, but not the bottoms. Her teeth were crooked, and her hair could have used a style. She looked a bit down on her luck. I thought maybe she was his sister.

I looked at Albert Coin and felt terrible for leaving him there on the road. He looked banged up. And I blamed Lyndon for making me leave the scene that night—so angry I could have hit him. His insistence on telling those little white lies was devious, but what was worse was having left Albert Coin in the road—it just flew in the face of his pain. It was hard not to show it.

We never stopped to help.

The white car—a distant mirage—was as though it had never existed—and I was guilty. Lyndon's face turned pale. Everyone talked and looked forward to the bench, but the chatter in the room ceased when the judged banged the gavel.

"We will proceed." His voice boomed across the room like the voice of God, if there was one.

The woman parked the wheelchair in the aisle and went to the stand to take her oath. Albert stared straight ahead. The lady prosecutor introduced her to the court as Dorothy Porter. It turns out she was his friend and was with him that night.

"Miss Porter, can you identify the person behind the wheel of the Blue Toyota the night your friend, Albert Coin, was injured?"

She replied. "Yes, Ma'am, that lady was there with the bright red hair." I knew she had not seen the other car when she pointed to me. She was telling the truth—the truth she knew—that it was me in that truck. Her testimony was like a death knell, but I was sure there was still a chance. I needed to stand up and tell them the honest-to-God truth.

I leaned toward Lyndon and said, "I'm not doing this anymore. I need to get up there—now." After a short huddle, our lawyer—stunned about this new testimony and keen to have it over quickly—nodded in agreement. He realized that with Lyndon's testimony, we had lost credibility.

Our lawyer rose and told the court we would respond with our rebuttal. He called me to the witness stand. By this time, I was sweating—knots formed in my stomach. My shoes felt like cement. The judge looked down from his high-backed chair and said, "You may come forward, Mrs. Fowler." I spread my right hand out full on that Bible. It was time they heard nothing but the whole truth.

Our lawyer asked me to tell the court what I saw that night.

"We did see the accident, but we didn't cause it. That man there, Albert Coin, stumbled into the middle of the road, and I had to swerve hard to avoid hitting him. A speeding white car that had come up fast on our right did not see him in time. They hit him and sped right on through the red light. We had been drinking and left the scene because we didn't want a DUI. I felt awful about that." The truth was out, but the lady prosecutor did not want to ask me more questions. She closed her notebook, shook her head, and said, "No questions, your honor."

The jury assumed Dorothy's testimony was all the evidence they needed. And it was her voice, they believed. To the jury, it seemed beyond a reasonable doubt, and I realized it had been Dorothy's voice I'd heard when I'd rolled down the window.

Later that afternoon, when the jury returned with a guilty plea, I was stunned but knew I bore some of the blame. I realized I'd been led astray by a substitute of my manipulative father. But I also knew I'd be alright. I'd always managed to support myself with my skills, and strangely—at that moment—it meant liberty and freedom from Lyndon. I looked across the room and watched him sobbing, so fearful and pathetic—not crying for anyone but himself. His pained look said he would suffer the most. Who would save him from the compromised dignity of having to find a job? I knew it wouldn't be me.

So, my friend wants to know if I have regrets. I say no. I'll be out in a year, maybe less. Albert Coin got better though he now walks with a minor limp. My divorce from Lyndon became final last month. I don't hear much from him, nor do I care. He found a job at the Home Depot. I imagine him whining—but not to me—and wearing one of those big wide belts for back support. I picture him in the lunchroom watching FOX News during his break, lording his political views over his fellow workers—proving he's always right.

Here, it's not so bad. I don't have to work myself ragged, especially not for Lyndon. I don't have to cook or burn my fingers. I paint wild horses with glorious manes, their smooth coats reflecting the colors of the evening sun. The ladies here—some in for killing men—find a sense of peace in my paintings. They tell me they see the power in the fleet-footed horses running free under an open sky in fields of gold.

I tell them I see that too.