The trial of my hit-and-runner Julie Tilley is mid-September. She’s been in jail since July 27. She’s facing five charges, one a felony. The district attorney says she’ll probably only get a few months since she’s a first offender. In cases like hers, they sentence by guidelines in a published grid. I feel the need to face her in court, to have her see the consequences of her actions, to look me in the eye. I’m not sure why, but I still don’t feel anger at Julie. No hate. Perhaps when I see the actual person the rage will come out. I doubt it. I’m more concerned about what I can possibly do to prevent this from happening again, to me, or to anyone else.

The morning of the trial I shave my beard. It is too unruly, too motley, too much salt and not enough pepper. It has begun to look like a small compost heap on my chin. Some of the white hairs have little brains and big egos of their own and grow fashionably against the grain. Some dance to a different drummer, perhaps a drunken bongo player on the beach. Some are so stiff, solid and white I wonder if they’re actually bone fragments from the third vertebra that have worked their way internally through my neck and out of my chin.

It takes forever to drive to the courthouse––yes, I drive and brake with my left foot, Frankenfoot up on the seat, neck brace and all, carefully, cautiously––to park in a lot a block away, to crutch up the street, into the federal building, up the stairs, down the hall, over the river and through the woods, to the security area. The guards discover my Swiss army knife in my fanny pack. ALERT! ALERT! DANGEROUS INVALID! One security officer, who looks like an official taster for every batch of Krispy Kreme Doughnuts coming out of Winston, yes, he was big, soft and round with a hole in the center where his brain wasn’t, says, “Sir, we can’t allow you beyond here with this knife. You’ll have to leave it outside.” I say, “But it took me three years to get here from the car. The trial will be over and you’ll all have retired by the time I get back.” Sgt. Kreme says, “Leave it outside or we’ll confiscate it.” I say, “It’s so old I can’t even get the blade out. I only use the wine opener, the toothpick and the tweezers.” Krispy says, “We’ve had quite a few fatal tweezing here recently” or maybe not. I want to say very badly, “Do you know why we know this toothpick was invented here in the South? Because if it were invented in the North, it would have been called the TEETHpick!” I leave my knife in the bushes outside, but not before I use it to sharpen the ends of my wooden crutches.  

The courtroom is stark and dark: brown trim on brown paneling with brown pews and a brown carpet. Most of the defendants and convicts are brown; all of the lawyers are white. The security guards and policemen look like large relatives of Sgt. Kreme. They waddle around with sticks and chains and guns and little pouches hanging all over them. There are 75 cases on the docket that day. Mine is scheduled somewhere between 1 and 75, depending on when whoever arrives, the whim of the judge and the phase of Jupiter’s sixth moon. Two hours later, it’s Julie’s time and my time. She’s led in and sits at the right table, in front of the low, brown, wooden wall separating all the officials from the unofficials, the friends, the families, the teeming masses of about 20 people in a room that holds 200. She’s shortish, stockyish, and forty-fourish with greasy jail hair flattened behind a pasty face. Just the way I had imagined her. Could I have possibly seen her through the windshield in the split second before IMPACT?

The DA announces the case, explains the particulars of the accident, the eye-witnesses, the blood alcohol content more than three times the legal limit, the citizens that followed and cornered her, the trooper who arrested her and then lists the charges: Felony Hit/Run, Fail to Stop Personal Injury, Operate Vehicle No Insurance, Driving While Impaired, Reckless Driving to Endanger. Her attorney mumbles a few things and says that I swerved into Julie’s lane. Everyone pretty much ignores him. They call on me to speak. I stand behind the DA’s table, address the judge, but face Julie, without notes. The moment I speak she starts sobbing. I’m not even sure if she hears me through her constant rhythmic weeping.

“Your honor, I choose to speak today for three reasons:
First, to give you, the judge, more information to help make your decision.
Second, to see what kind of creature could cut down another human being, leave them laying on the side of the road and drive off, like an inhuman force, a hurricane moving across the land, uncaring, unfeeling, disaster in its path, never looking back.
Third, to look into the eye of Hurricane Julie and see if there is a calm in the middle of the storm, a human place that may be able to see the consequences of her actions and hear my words. And just maybe…maybe I can help prevent her from doing this again to another person.

Let’s go back to July 27. I was just a guy riding a bike…52, a faithful husband, a loving father, a piano player, a guitar player, VP of a little company. I have a cat. I could have been anyone here in the courtroom. Julie, I could have been one of your friends. Or one of your family.

It was an important day for me…my wedding anniversary. However, earlier in the spring, my precious wife of eleven years separated from me, and the motorcycle became my therapy, helping me heal, along with daily roller blading, exercise, hiking, travel, and swing dancing. This year, instead of a celebration of joy and togetherness, July 27 was a solitary celebration of me, my cycle and the start of feeling good again.

It was a perfect day. I had a great ride in the mountains. I was coming back home to go to a swing dance concert when suddenly your car was in my lane. 100 mile per hour impact. I’m told I flew thirty feet. You got out, looked at me and drove on. Luckily there were witnesses and people to help me. Soon I was in the hospital: no bike, no roller blading, no hiking, no travel, no swing dancing.

I look a lot better today than I did six weeks ago. Crack in the back of my skull, concussion, half of the back of my head is still numb. Broken neck, at least two vertebrae cracked or fractured. A sliced artery, one of the four that feed the brain. I’ll have to take some form of blood thinner for the rest of my life to prevent blood clots entering the brain and causing a stroke. Shoulder trauma with a few bones still protruding more than normal; sprained wrist, thumb and fingers; bruised ribs. Fractured pelvis, soft tissue damage, internal bleeding, huge bruises on my legs and groin that crushed the fuel tank. A fractured foot with no prognosis yet from the doctors. I may need more operations, I don’t know yet. After the first operation, I asked the doctor how the foot was. He said, “Your large so-and-so bone was powder.” Powder.

Why am I alive? Two reason. I was in very good shape the day of the crash but more importantly, I was wearing protective clothing from head to toe: full-face helmet, not just leathers but a technical riding jacket with heavy padding in the arms, shoulders and back, technical riding pants with padding in the crotch, leather riding boots, padded riding gloves. Luckily I had the padded riding pants or my pelvis probably would have been powder, too. If you had hit a bicyclist with normal clothing, he’d be dead, a squashed bug. If you’d hit a biker wearing normal clothing––a Nazi helmet and a T-shirt––he’d be dead or seriously maimed. If you’d hit a car with a family of four, a couple of kids––who knows?

So Julie, you and I have something in common: We’re both lucky that I’m alive. I get a little more time on earth and you’re not facing a manslaughter charge.

Whatever sentence the judge gives you here today, you’ll eventually be free. You’ll walk out of here and back into your former life. Then who will stop you from picking up the bottle, picking up the keys, jumping into the car and destroying another person? Who will stop you then?

Julie, you will stop you. You will have a choice. When Hurricane Julie starts to rise again, I pray you’ll remember this moment. I pray you’ll remember what you did to me, and you’ll imagine that you could do the same to one of your friends or family. I pray you’ll put down the bottle, you’ll put down the keys, you’ll stop and sit down. You’ll let the alcohol drain out of your veins. Or you’ll give the keys to someone else, so you can relax and just be the passenger.

And then we’ll both be lucky again. In fact, the whole world will be lucky.”

After a few random procedures, Julie is asked if she has anything to say. She stands up, faces me and through a renewed flood of tears, she says she’s sorry, she can never forgive herself, how can God forgive her, she’ll never do it again, she’s sorry, sorry, sorry. I say, “I believe you, Julie.” [Translation: “I forgive you Julie, but I don’t want the judge to hear that right before he sentences you.”]

They split the ruling into two parts. Sentence for Hit/Run, Operate Vehicle with No Insurance: 6-8 months incarceration at the NC Dept. of Corrections, suspended for 24 months supervised probation, 6 months Intensive. Cost of court. $3,169 restitution to Scott Jones. 100 hours community service work. Assessment at Step-One and follow recommendations. Not operate a motor vehicle until authorized by Dept of Motor Vehicles. Her sentence for Driving While Impaired, Reckless Driving: 6 months active, credit for time already served since July 27. I'm not holding my breath while I wait for the money.

For the felony Hit/Run she just gets probation. If she breaks it, if she doesn’t pay me, etcetera, the incarceration sets in. There’s no mandatory treatment for the alcohol, just assessment at the Step-One facility and I hear they’re very, very busy over there. She can’t drive until the Department says she can, whatever that means. Her only real time sentence is 6 months and she is sent back to jail from the courtroom. She is released mid-October after serving only two and a half months. The DA returns my call and explains it to me, however I don’t quite get it, so I won’t even try to translate. I think back to the courtroom and all the good ol’ boys: the white lawyers, the guards, the staff were always saying “Yep” to each other. Yep this, yep that. I believe YEP stands for their clandestine [Translation: Klan Destined] Yankee Elimination Program. Julie’s probably out there now, seeking her next victim. If you live in North Carolina, just stay home. Just say NO to driving.

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