Crazy B*tch (Memoirs of a Lemon Lover In Recovery)
Chapter 32—Out of the Mouths of Crazy People
My parents were heroically quiet throughout the whole time I spoke to the police. There were moments I saw my dad’s ears turn firebrand red, and I knew he was using every single ounce of restraint he had to remain silent. I knew he wanted to let loose on someone. Once the police left—actually they technically hadn’t pulled out the driveway yet—my dad let loose a tirade of epic proportions. I blush even now to think of it. Suffice to say all the derogatory terms used to describe female anatomy were flung about with wild abandon, and all these words were used to articulate my dad’s opinion of the crazy woman who hit me, and all her actions hereto with pertaining to the accident.
I heard him out, it was the least I could do. Once he was done, I set out to find a lawyer I could call first thing in the morning. I suspected that perhaps, I may not get my first choice of lawyers, so I wanted to have a list of follow up choices. There were some odds stacked against me, and I really didn’t want to represent myself. I really didn’t need a fool for a lawyer, or however that adage goes.
My dad was incensed, and in full on quasi-rabid papa-bear mode. I had his full support, figuratively, and literally. He didn’t care how much lawyer fees cost—they were going to fight that “lying, fat-assed, mink wearing, <vulgar female body part>”. He looked me in the eye when he proclaimed his support, and intentions to pay lawyer fees. I am not sure if it was the strain of recent events, or deep seated daddy issues, but in that moment I was reduced to a blubbering mass of tears. My relief was palatable, but then again, so was my blossoming insanity.
Emboldened by my parents’ support, procuring a lawyer seemed to go more smoothly than I anticipated. One phone call, and not only did I have an appointment: I had one before lunch that day. The lawyer seemed very confident, he was mildly concerned about the whole little speed-demon phase I went through, however. He told me that while that was a concern, he felt it would be quite easy to argue that I had reformed my ways—especially considering there were no allegations of excessive speeds in this particular case.
I liked my lawyer, he was a former police officer, and knew very well all the police officers I had the pleasure of meeting thus far. He was too professional to say outright, but I got the distinct feeling he was looking forward to putting the screws to Officer Cranky. Immediately after he accepted my case, my lawyer put his calls out to the police requesting all information pertaining to this case. He assured me he would have the information before the end of that day, and that we could meet the following day to discuss things further.
The police disclosed to my lawyer stuff they only could hint about to me a few days earlier. I started to realize, fully, why the officers responded to my account of events the way they did. The authorities were dealing with two radically different accounts of what happened. The only real similarities in the stories were the time and date, and the two people identified. Aside from that, the stories could have been two totally different events entirely.
The crazy woman alleged that she and her solid-brown car were driving along when I pulled out from the park lane, broad-siding her and pushing her into the car that was travelling along her other side. She recounted how she safely pulled on to a side street, where I followed her, and we discussed the accident. During this discussion, she alleged, I acted irrationally and violently, and at times tried to push her into oncoming traffic. The car photographs disclosed to the police depicted a car that was brown and yellow on one side of the car, and rumpled, and scraped metal on the other side. Nowhere on the photos or police reports was there any evidence that her car might have collided in that fashion with a gold car. In fact the only gold paint scuffs on her car was on the corner of the bumper that collided with my car’s bumper. Sadly, given all the other damage on the car, that small scuff was easily over looked. I brought that to my lawyer’s attention, and he immediately set the wheels in motion for the police re-examine her car.
As for the police report I filled out that day, police were having a hard time establishing its existence. Either it had been misfiled, or never filed at all. I sat in front of my lawyer as he called that particular detachment and spoke to Officer Cranky. She sounded every bit her sunshiny self over the phone, until my lawyer started asking some very specific questions. Her tone shifted from abrasive and annoyed to contrite (and mildly panicked). I could hear a man’s voice speaking to her in the background. He was saying something about giving “that woman” her card and badge number. I could tell that she was hearing that tidbit for the first time, and was not overly amused. My lawyer grinned and winked at me. We had her—and she was going to make every effort to find my report, and have it sent directly to all pertinent parties immediately—“as if her career depended on it”. Wow, she could be a real sweetie when properly motivated.
Things were starting to look up for me. The evidence was coming together to corroborate my versions of events. We now had Officer Cranky on board (“as if her career depended on it”), and the photos were finally living up to their worth of a thousand words. My dad was like a shark sensing the blood in the water. He wanted to vindicate me, but more importantly, he wanted to put the screws to the woman who not only struck the beautiful golden Swedish car, but lied about it. For him, assaulting a car was a crime that should properly be punishable by death.
I am glad my dad was there to take of the rage portion of the program. Physically, I did not have the energy. I was suffering from whiplash of epic proportions. Migraines, back pain and numbness in my finger-tips were daily occurrences for me. Sometimes it took my everything to focus on the details the lawyer shared with me. To add righteous indignation to the mix was something I could not afford.