"I've traveled all this way for something; Now, take it in but don't look down"

“Ow,” she loudly whimpers. Two bailiffs hold her arms behind her back and snap handcuffs into place. The courtroom remains silent as I look to my friend sitting to the left of me. I roll my eyes. She smirks. The judge appears less-than amused. Her lawyer leans toward her, tilting his head down to her, and whispers a comment to his client.

She is soon led out of the room through a side entrance. I realize this is a new beginning for her and, hopefully, closure for me. It’s been a long proverbial road to get here. One filled with detours and unpaved territory.

It began nearly eighteen months ago when on a random and beautiful weekday afternoon in the spring, her compact vehicle slammed into the front left corner of mine, taking out my bumper, lights, turn signal, and bending the tire wheel inward. My glasses flew off my face when the airbag deployed. Both of our cars were totaled, yet she walked away from the accident as if she had parked her silver Honda Fit at the grocery store. It was no big deal – just running in for a quick minute.

She had been arrested, spent a few days in jail, and released on a promise to appear. Then, she called a phone number she received at the accident, thinking it was mine. I was told about the call after the fact. The caller ranted and raved and ended her diatribe with “It wasn’t my fault.”

The next seventeen months, she refused to enter a plea, fired her court-appointed attorney, and hired well-known private representation.

Finally, the day came when she agreed to appear in court to supposedly enter a plea. I dressed in my Sunday best, donning eye makeup, and blow-dried and styled hair, eager to make a victim statement.

I waited in the courtroom with the support of the prosecution, victim advocate, and a friend – a retired judge. Time stood still in the ominously bright, but deafeningly quiet room. My eyes scanned the area for her, yet I had no recollection of her. To me, she’s a name, and one with a bad punchline.

A man was called to the bench. He walked forward dressed in a black wrinkly suit and untamed long dark hair. I listened in astonishment to the charges filed against him. The prosecution read the timeline of events and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. The remnants of my breakfast spun in my stomach as I heard how he abused and neglected animals living in his home. He claimed to be just the landlord residing at a separate property, but acknowledged a sexual relationship with the animals’ owner and admitted to staying at the house on occasion. As he was sentenced and left the courtroom, I wondered what other surprises awaited me and who else is dressed to hide their identity.

Soon, she is called to the stand.

My heart jumped. I had looked at her many times this morning waiting for this moment. She is dressed cute, but not court appropriate. Purple leggings, a matching sweater, canvas sneakers, and a puffy black jacket. She appeared angry or hungover. Her face was puffy. Her hair was dry and strewn, maybe damaged by a straightener or too much blow drying. She scowled.

Her lawyer, tall with broad shoulders and a gray wrinkled suit, met her at the stand. The prosecution read her charges and a timeline of the events, starting with the arrest that occurred two weeks before my accident. Similarly, she had been arrested on DUI. The prosecution revealed her blood alcohol level at her previous arrest – more than three times the legal limit – and her physical and verbal resistance to the arrest, battling the police.

At the summary of the events leading up to her arrest at my accident, I am sickened and relieved I didn’t know then she had drank a half pint of vodka before getting in her vehicle for a leisurely drive, nearly hitting one of her neighbor’s family members as she did so. The judge asked the defendant if she understood the summary and she vehemently argued the accuracy of the statement. Her voice is high-pitched, squeaking, and muffled. She is nearly incoherent, but insists she is sober.

I am invited to make a statement and rising to take my place, I’m legitimately excited. Yes, I enjoy public speaking, but more so, I’ve been quiet for too long. This negligent drunken driver rattled my peace and tested my sanity.

When I finished and returned to my seat, I had been thanked by the judge and praised by my friend and the onlookers seated next to her. The verdict was in and the defendant earned a two-hundred-forty-day prison sentence with four years of probation and a laundry list of requirements to execute.

As I drive away from the courthouse, I can’t help but think how I am returning to a normal day at the office and she is stepping into the unknown, earned through the consequence of her own actions.