I know I should hate him, but I don’t. There. I said it. I don’t hate the drunk driver who injured my son and killed his girlfriend. I don’t wish him harm. I don’t spend my every waking moment fantasizing about his demise. I feel sorry for him. Not in the same way you feel sorry for an orphan, say, or a lost puppy, with love in your heart and a tear in your eye. But sorry in a pathetic kind of way. Sorry that no one cared. No one in the juvenile justice system cared enough about this kid to permanently take away his license after the first time he ran somebody down. No one in his family cared enough to get him the help he needed for his drinking problem. Maybe no one even noticed that he had one. I feel sorry in a regretful kind of way. That maybe if someone had cared enough to intervene, he wouldn’t have been drinking that night. Or at least not on the road. Nine years ago my teenaged son Neil was walking his girlfriend Trista home after a study date at our home. A drunk driver, another teenager just a few years older than my son, plowed into them and kept on going. He rolled his SUV a few hundred feet down the road. Police found 32 empty beer cans in his vehicle. He tried to make a break for it on foot but was quickly apprehended. From the beginning, he took no responsibility for his actions. He tried to claim he wasn’t driving, even though an off-duty firefighter had witnessed the roll-over. He even tried to act all noble, telling the arresting officer, who asked him who was driving, “I won’t rat out my friends.” For Trista’s family, the hate started early. I remember Trista’s little brother Bud sitting in a chair outside of her cubicle in the local emergency room, slamming his fist into the palm of his hand over and over.
“I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him,” he said, spitting his words out through his tears. I didn’t have room for the hatred that first night. I didn’t have time for it. I needed to put all of my energy into helping my boy get better. Neil suffered a skull fracture, subdural hematomas and a subarachnoid hemorrhage. He had a total of five CAT scans to monitor his bleeding brain. His acute confusion and agitation gradually gave way to chronic memory loss, personality changes and anxiety. He had two operations in one year on a leg that wouldn’t heal. He was on pain-killers, anti-seizure medications and anti-depressants. He spent days in the ICU, months in physical therapy and years in talk therapy. I was a little busy. But if, in the beginning, I had no time for the hatred, in the end I just didn’t feel it. I did my part to get the drunk driver convicted. I took time off from work to make his every court appearance. I argued for a lengthy sentence. And when he didn’t get one, I showed up at every parole hearing to plead for his continued incarceration. I felt I owed that much to Neil and Trista. But do I owe it to them to hate? Do I have to carry that rage around inside of me? Do I have to wear it like a badge? I hope not. Because I can’t. I cannot pin all of my hopes on justice. I cannot let my healing depend on getting this guy the sentence he deserves. I tried my best. I showed up. But I cannot let his sentence define my peace. I’ve heard a definition of revenge that goes something like this: it’s like taking poison, then waiting for the other person to die. Trista’s parents’ hatred is poisonous. Understandable, but chilling in its matter-of-factness. Mary talked frequently in those early days after the accident about running the drunk over with her car if she ever met him on the street when he gets out of jail. She added that before she hits him, she will knock back the nip she keeps in her glove compartment just for the occasion because “obviously if you’re a drunk driver, you can get away with murder.” I suspect she was only half kidding. Trista’s father David once told the judges at one of the drunk’s parole hearings that justice will only be served when they cut his body down from a pipe after he hangs himself in his jail cell. He broke down as he said it. Mary comforted him. “Don’t say that, David, don’t say it,” she soothed. They really seemed to want this man dead. Would I if he had killed my son? Should I because he changed Neil’s life forever? It’s been nine years since the accident. Perhaps their position has softened. The drunk has never shown any remorse. Remorse first requires that one understand the pain and damage one has wrought. The drunk driver has never made this first step. In his small mind with his concrete thinking, he cannot be held accountable for events he cannot remember. He did not make parole at any of his three attempts. He was inarticulate, shallow and unintelligent. When asked by the judge why he should be let out of jail early, he replied, “So I can get on with my life,” like killing someone was just a minor inconvenience to be waited out or stepped over. He took an alcohol recovery course in jail in order to chip some time off of his sentence, but he seemed to miss the whole point of the program. Asked if he had a problem with alcohol, he answered, “I guess I don’t have a problem in here because I can’t drink in here.” It sounded like a bad Lenny Bruce joke. But it didn’t fill me with anger. It didn’t fill me with anything at all. It left me empty. Astonished at this monstrous lack of humanity. Completely mystified as to how someone could take a person’s life and not realize its impact; not feel shame or sorrow or regret. The drunk received a 3 ½-year sentence in the Essex County House of Correction where he became Offender #MID402117. He got 2 ½ years for motor vehicle homicide and a year each, to run concurrently, for leaving the scene of an accident resulting in death and leaving the scene of an accident resulting in personal injury. The manslaughter he was charged with carried a maximum 20-year sentence, vehicular homicide, ten. When you throw in the DUI and the possession of a class D substance, the charges he accumulated carried a possible combined sentence of 40 years. He was out in 33 months. He received five years’ probation on the charge of aggravated assault with a dangerous weapon--a car. The judge imposed certain restrictions on him, such as a ban on alcohol consumption. If he violated any of the terms of his probation, he faced a maximum of 15 years in state prison. Today he is back behind bars. He violated his parole by walking into a local 99 Restaurant and ordering a “blockbuster”—that’s a 24-ounce glass—of Sam Adams beer. He is now serving a 5-7 year state prison sentence. His decision showed a callous disregard for the rules of his probation as well as the feelings of us, his victims. It also showed more than a little stupidity: the server who took his order was a fellow former high school student and a friend of Trista’s. I believe in redemption. I really do. I have to. I’ve parented two teenaged boys. I am a pediatrician with a large adolescent practice. I know kids make mistakes. I believe in second chances. But the drunk driver had his second chance; and he blew it. That doesn’t mean I hate him. When I argued before the judges for a lengthy sentence, I wasn’t seeking revenge. I was simply looking for justice. Nine years later, there are only two ways I can travel to and from work. On one route, I pass the cemetery where Trista is buried. Her grave marker is a large granite heart with a photograph of her and her family at Disney World embedded in it. Soggy teddy bears, deflated balloons and dead bouquets clutter the space around it. A quote attributed to Trista is engraved along the bottom of the tombstone: “Life’s too short to be sad.” The other route I can choose takes me past the scene of the accident. A makeshift shrine with photographs of Trista, ribbons and candles marks the spot. They are daily reminders of our loss and what Neil has overcome. Driving by these two scenes evokes many emotions in me; but hatred isn’t one of them. I do feel the injustice of the drunk breathing air that Trista cannot. But I don’t feel it as hatred. I feel it as pity and hopelessness and wonder that there is a human being on this earth who so completely doesn’t get it.
“I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him,” he said, spitting his words out through his tears. I didn’t have room for the hatred that first night. I didn’t have time for it. I needed to put all of my energy into helping my boy get better. Neil suffered a skull fracture, subdural hematomas and a subarachnoid hemorrhage. He had a total of five CAT scans to monitor his bleeding brain. His acute confusion and agitation gradually gave way to chronic memory loss, personality changes and anxiety. He had two operations in one year on a leg that wouldn’t heal. He was on pain-killers, anti-seizure medications and anti-depressants. He spent days in the ICU, months in physical therapy and years in talk therapy. I was a little busy. But if, in the beginning, I had no time for the hatred, in the end I just didn’t feel it. I did my part to get the drunk driver convicted. I took time off from work to make his every court appearance. I argued for a lengthy sentence. And when he didn’t get one, I showed up at every parole hearing to plead for his continued incarceration. I felt I owed that much to Neil and Trista. But do I owe it to them to hate? Do I have to carry that rage around inside of me? Do I have to wear it like a badge? I hope not. Because I can’t. I cannot pin all of my hopes on justice. I cannot let my healing depend on getting this guy the sentence he deserves. I tried my best. I showed up. But I cannot let his sentence define my peace. I’ve heard a definition of revenge that goes something like this: it’s like taking poison, then waiting for the other person to die. Trista’s parents’ hatred is poisonous. Understandable, but chilling in its matter-of-factness. Mary talked frequently in those early days after the accident about running the drunk over with her car if she ever met him on the street when he gets out of jail. She added that before she hits him, she will knock back the nip she keeps in her glove compartment just for the occasion because “obviously if you’re a drunk driver, you can get away with murder.” I suspect she was only half kidding. Trista’s father David once told the judges at one of the drunk’s parole hearings that justice will only be served when they cut his body down from a pipe after he hangs himself in his jail cell. He broke down as he said it. Mary comforted him. “Don’t say that, David, don’t say it,” she soothed. They really seemed to want this man dead. Would I if he had killed my son? Should I because he changed Neil’s life forever? It’s been nine years since the accident. Perhaps their position has softened. The drunk has never shown any remorse. Remorse first requires that one understand the pain and damage one has wrought. The drunk driver has never made this first step. In his small mind with his concrete thinking, he cannot be held accountable for events he cannot remember. He did not make parole at any of his three attempts. He was inarticulate, shallow and unintelligent. When asked by the judge why he should be let out of jail early, he replied, “So I can get on with my life,” like killing someone was just a minor inconvenience to be waited out or stepped over. He took an alcohol recovery course in jail in order to chip some time off of his sentence, but he seemed to miss the whole point of the program. Asked if he had a problem with alcohol, he answered, “I guess I don’t have a problem in here because I can’t drink in here.” It sounded like a bad Lenny Bruce joke. But it didn’t fill me with anger. It didn’t fill me with anything at all. It left me empty. Astonished at this monstrous lack of humanity. Completely mystified as to how someone could take a person’s life and not realize its impact; not feel shame or sorrow or regret. The drunk received a 3 ½-year sentence in the Essex County House of Correction where he became Offender #MID402117. He got 2 ½ years for motor vehicle homicide and a year each, to run concurrently, for leaving the scene of an accident resulting in death and leaving the scene of an accident resulting in personal injury. The manslaughter he was charged with carried a maximum 20-year sentence, vehicular homicide, ten. When you throw in the DUI and the possession of a class D substance, the charges he accumulated carried a possible combined sentence of 40 years. He was out in 33 months. He received five years’ probation on the charge of aggravated assault with a dangerous weapon--a car. The judge imposed certain restrictions on him, such as a ban on alcohol consumption. If he violated any of the terms of his probation, he faced a maximum of 15 years in state prison. Today he is back behind bars. He violated his parole by walking into a local 99 Restaurant and ordering a “blockbuster”—that’s a 24-ounce glass—of Sam Adams beer. He is now serving a 5-7 year state prison sentence. His decision showed a callous disregard for the rules of his probation as well as the feelings of us, his victims. It also showed more than a little stupidity: the server who took his order was a fellow former high school student and a friend of Trista’s. I believe in redemption. I really do. I have to. I’ve parented two teenaged boys. I am a pediatrician with a large adolescent practice. I know kids make mistakes. I believe in second chances. But the drunk driver had his second chance; and he blew it. That doesn’t mean I hate him. When I argued before the judges for a lengthy sentence, I wasn’t seeking revenge. I was simply looking for justice. Nine years later, there are only two ways I can travel to and from work. On one route, I pass the cemetery where Trista is buried. Her grave marker is a large granite heart with a photograph of her and her family at Disney World embedded in it. Soggy teddy bears, deflated balloons and dead bouquets clutter the space around it. A quote attributed to Trista is engraved along the bottom of the tombstone: “Life’s too short to be sad.” The other route I can choose takes me past the scene of the accident. A makeshift shrine with photographs of Trista, ribbons and candles marks the spot. They are daily reminders of our loss and what Neil has overcome. Driving by these two scenes evokes many emotions in me; but hatred isn’t one of them. I do feel the injustice of the drunk breathing air that Trista cannot. But I don’t feel it as hatred. I feel it as pity and hopelessness and wonder that there is a human being on this earth who so completely doesn’t get it.
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Comments
Perhaps one of the most powerful, healing thoughts I've seen expressed on OS. The offender may not 'get it', but what a blessing for you and your son that you do!
Thank you for sharing this tragic piece of your life with us.
Your post couldn't mean more to me. It made my stomach knot up. Frankly, it scared me half to death.
It hit home, as they say, because I am dealing with a young 24-year old son currently incarcerated for two consecutive DUIs, and is now in prison for the next 10 months. Thankfully, my son never injured anyone with a vehicle, though he got within a hare's breath of doing so. It could just as easily have been my son who did those terrible things to yours and his girlfriend and though I am thankful it was not, at the same time I am shaken to my bones at the thought that it could have been.
My son is an alcoholic, pure and simple. He learned early to drink, he has a history of alcoholism among his maternal relatives. He exhibits all of the characteristics you described in the perpetrator in your case: denial of guilt, being victimized by the system, a lack of remorse, etc., etc.
Brendan is going to AA meetings in prison twice weekly. But I am fearful that that is not enough and, though I know that my son knows he is sick; that he knows he's made horrific choices for 10 years. Though he knows he cannot go on as he has simply because his life will be misery filled and that he will ultimately wind up back in prison or, God forbid, hurt someone, I wonder where he will get the courage to face his demons squarely and recover. In the end, so far as I can see, it comes down to choosing to leave the old life behind and seek a new one. There is no medicine, no pill, indeed even no punishment, really, which can make someone resolve that he can no longer live a meaningless, self-centered life. It must come from within. It must be self-initiated.
And though my son tells me all the right words when I visit him in jail, experience tells me that I should not delude myself into thinking that even prison is going to change him. I am hopeful but wary, I suppose.
Of this I can tell you: the worst of us are someone's son or daughter, too. Your agony is mine but with a different twist. It is almost as hard for people like myself to watch the baby I saw come into the world from his mother's womb, full of the promise of a good life, full of hope, only to descend, just 14 years later, into a life of pure hell from drugs and alcohol.
Your almost incredible charity toward this young man speaks volumes as to who you are as a human being and exemplifies the best which lies in us all.
I salute you and your son and hope dearly for his speedy recovery. Please keep my own son, and others like him, in your thoughts.
I think you're absolutely right that the real "justice" would be in this person being able to get it and to feel some remorse. Anything other than that, and it almost doesn't matter whether he's in prison or not (except to keep him from harming anyone else by drinking and driving).
I do too. I just think that a 40 year sentence plus redemption is better than a 3 year sentence plus redemption.
My grandfather was murdered many years ago. Fortunately, the two men responsible for blowing his head off with a shotgun were executed. Were they redeemed before their executions? I hope so. Redeemed or not, I think the sentence was appropriate.
I guess in my old age I have simply lost patience with criminals. When people are killed or injured in crimes I'm all in favor of long sentences. Forgiveness and redemption are fine things, but they are things that are between the criminals and God. Let them be forgiven and redeemed while spending a few decades in a prison cell.
I agree w/you that the tragedy is for that drunken kid who's now a repeat offender. How sad that no one in his life cared enough about him to try to help him turn his life around.
How admirable that you've risen above all of this--tough thing to do. I personally feel some things are unforgivable, but 1 way I've gotten past them is to accept them in order to move on. Doing so has helped me not "let acid corrode the vessel."
God bless...
-r-
Damn! That is hate at its best. It is the passive-aggressive hatred that calculating people do so they will not risk going to prison. I think what some parents do taking justice into their own hands is much less evil and repulsive than this satanic dissertation. There is no room for forgiveness in this piece. Without knowing you are turning yourself and everyone you know into guard labor waiting and watching for a drunk and a liar.
I am so sorry for what you had to go through.