Is anybody there?

First, the facts: My economy-model hybrid, hibernating at an intersection, waiting for the signal light to change from red to green. Then my car lurches forward as it is struck from behind. In the rearview mirror, I glimpse the grill of an SUV grinning through my hatchback window. Since when did they start manufacturing irony out of plastic?

I blamed myself for choosing to drive a low-profile, subcompact car, but I didn’t admit anything like this to the driver that stepped out of her vehicle as I exited mine. 

As I said, the accident was minor, and it wasn’t my fault, and I didn’t rub my neck or make any low moaning sounds while assuming the lawsuit position. Instead, I decided to be honest, reasonable and to stop blocking traffic. I pulled into a nearby parking lot and waved the SUV along to follow me. That’s when I called the police. 

Hello? I’d like to report an accident. No, there are no injuries, just a fender bender. Where am I? I’m at the intersection of Oh Shit and Just My Luck. Yes, I was wearing my seat-belt, but it didn’t help. An officer is on the way?  Thank you. I’ll be waiting.

That’s the call, pretty much, with a few embellishments to protect the witless. 

I handed the officer my license and insurance; the SUV driver had no proof of insurance, but swore her new insurance card had been accidentally left at home. The whole time she fiddled with her cell phone and I suspected she’d been doing the same thing before the moment of impact. But I didn’t express my suspicion. She was issued a citation for careless driving and a summons to appear in court. The police officer couldn’t tell me exactly when her court case would be scheduled, but he handed me his business card, suggesting I call in three to five days. 

I did better than that. Before the end of the week I stopped by the police desk and asked for a copy of the accident report. It cost me $4. I told the clerk the accident was not my fault. She said I still had to pay, then handed me a sticky note with the court appearance date scrawled in red ink. I marked my calendar.

No citation required that I go to court, but I wanted to observe the process of justice, the stern expression on the judge’s face, the consternation of the reporting officer while listening to the defendant’s inexplicable but surely elaborate explanation for driving an uninsured vehicle and for crunching my fuel efficient dreams. 

My insurance coverage only included liability on my car, a premium that cost me over $120 a year, so I knew I would not be reimbursed one penny by my insurance company, though it happily collected my pennies as profit to secure my right to drive. My only consolation came from the body shop, a $750 estimate to fix my rear end, more affordable than my last colonoscopy. 

On the red letter date in question I had a conflicting appointment, but the driver never showed up in court anyway.  On the phone, a clerk told me a warrant would not be issued for her arrest, which meant the driver would have to be involved in another legal transgression before she’d be required to answer these charges for careless driving and for not having insurance on the vehicle she’d been operating, and probably is still driving.

Unless. 

Unless what?

Unless you know where she is and you feel like reporting her location to the police. 

I thanked the polite clerk and hung up, chewing one of my nails as I pondered what to do. The woman was a complete stranger to me. But then I had a crime-busting idea. The first page of the $4 accident report, second box from the top, listed her address. Feeling a bit like a stalker, I drove to where she lived. 

Sure enough, her SUV was parked in front of her apartment door, a mere half mile from the county court where she’d been summoned to appear.  While I sat there fuming, as if to parody my frustration, I spotted a police car conspicuously positioned two intersections away. Vehicles moving past quickly reduced their speed as soon as they noticed the speed trap. Not until I slowly approached the squad car to talk with the officer did I notice it was occupied by a mannequin dressed in a police officer’s uniform propped behind the wheel. I swear this is true. The car had been outfitted as a decoy to slow down the traffic on this busy street.

The rear end of my little car sagged all the way home. Though I hadn’t been injured in the accident, I’d been chumped. It’s the American way: the victim always pays.

– David Feela