IF WE’D HAD the wedding in Tolford, he might have come,” she said, peeved. At Brian. At Richard. At herself. At the world. “You know Daddy didn’t care where the wedding took place.”
It was the day after New Year’s Day, January 2, 1975. It was a cold, dreary day in Nashville. Cold and dreary outside, but colder and drearier inside the two-bedroom newlywed apartment on 12th Avenue, where only one newlywed resided full time.
“Your father is a… nice man… and he spoils you,” Richard said, holding up and comparing two conservative dark suits that looked almost identical. “He never would have told you how important it was to him, politically, to have the wedding in Nashville. He’s the party rep for his district, for Christ’s sake. He has obligations. You can’t expect him to rearrange his life for the convenience of someone like Brian Carowack.”
“Tolford is our hometown. Daddy was mayor there before he was district chairman. He has obligations there, too. He didn’t care if every Democrat in the state came to our wedding; that was you.” She frowned over an old tweed jacket. “A small wedding in Tolford and a reception at my folks’ house would have been perfect. We didn’t need to invite all those strangers. I didn’t know half of them. Are you sure you want to pack this tweed jacket?”
“Yes. I’m going to have leather patches put on the elbows. And all those strangers were friends of your father’s…”
“Acquaintances.”
“…who happen to be very powerful people in this state. Not one of them could have been left off the list without repercussions. And your father knew it.”
They’d been over this before, of course. Over it and over it before the wedding and several more times over the four months since. It wasn’t the only thing they fought about as young newlyweds, but it did seem to be the most recurring. Maybe that was because she still had a number of thank-you notes to be written to people whose names she didn’t recognize. Or because she was still sorting the candid photographs of the reception with so many unfamiliar faces in them. Or maybe it was because she still resented the absurdity of Richard insisting the wedding be held in a town where she had lived for barely a month and knew no one, when Tolford or Memphis where her family and most her of friends were—or even his hometown of Knoxville—would have been more practical, made better sense, and would have meant more to her. It was hard to tell. So many things seemed to trigger a fight these days.
The constant packing and unpacking over the past several weeks wasn’t helping her nerves either. In August, along with all the preparations for the wedding, she’d packed up her apartment and moved from Memphis to Nashville because of her job with Jim Seirs—then she unpacked. She packed up all the wedding and shower gifts from both Tolford and Memphis, took them to Nashville—then she unpacked them. She packed up everything in Richard’s seldom-used apartment in Memphis because he was too busy at graduate school, hauled it all to Nashville—then unpacked it. Now she was packing the things Richard would be taking back to school with him… and wanting to unpack it.
She didn’t want to spend what little time they had left bickering, she really didn’t. She just couldn’t seem to help herself. Something was terribly wrong—and their time apart was only making it worse. She wanted to quit her job and go with him.
“This doesn’t make any sense at all,” she said, placing a half-dozen pressed shirts in the suitcase beside his underwear. “It was bad enough last summer trying to plan the wedding with you gone. But you fly in for the ceremony and our weekend honeymoon, leave me here high and dry until Thanksgiving, fly back to Yale, come home for Christmas, and now I won’t see you again until spring break. I hate this! A husband should be with his wife. I should be going to New Haven with you.”
“We’ve been over this, too,” he reminded her, dumping three or four pairs of shoes on the bed for her to pack. “We’re not the first couple to get married under these circumstances. We’re young. We’re both working on our careers. And it’s not the quantity of our time together that counts; it’s the quality.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t think the quality of our marriage has been all that great so far, Richard. We saw more of each other and were happier when we were single.”
He turned from the bureau to look at her, sighing as if he were dealing with a child. Smiling, he drew her gently into his arms.
“We agreed on this before the wedding, remember? We have an agenda. I get my MBA and find out everything I can about Druet’s operation. You stay here in Tennessee, get Seirs into the senate, and by the time your father’s ready to run for governor, the two of us will manage his campaign. A couple terms here in Nashville, then we’ll take him to D.C. Ten years tops. We can do it, if we stay focused on our goal.”
“Daddy hasn’t even decided yet if… If he’s not well enough…”
“He will be. Seirs is ready now, but the history books already have your father’s name all over that seat in the senate. He’s a shoe-in. The party leaders love him.”
“He’s not your puppet, Richard. He’s getting older, and Daddy has definite…”
“Of course he’s not my puppet, dear,” he said, cutting her off as he frequently did, forcing the endearment he only used to cajole or placate her. Just once, she wished he’d called her sweetheart or honey or babe… and mean it. “He’s a reasonable, rational, intelligent man. He listens to his constituents and advisors—that’ll be us someday—and he makes the best possible decisions.”
“I don’t know, Richard,” she said, letting him press her head to his chest and hold her tight. “Working for Jim now, setting Daddy up to challenge him… it feels like cheating.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s politics. Seirs knows the game. He knows who you are. You’re giving him your best effort now… that’s all we promised him. No one’s cheating anybody.” And then to pacify her, he added, “I’ll try for more weekend visits, I promise.”
She sighed. If she could draw this same picture for Brian, she was sure he’d shade it differently, define it better, make it clearer.
With his hands on her shoulders, he kissed her brow and bent his knees to look into her eyes, smiling. “Feel a little better now?” he asked. “Our time apart is only temporary. Remember that. And we’ll both be so busy for the next few months, it’ll go by in no time at all. You’ll see. Do you know where the red striped tie your mother gave me for Christmas is?”
“Dry cleaner. I’ll pick it up this afternoon.”
“Thanks.” He gave her shoulders a reassuring pat and started to leave the room.
“Oh, yes,” he said, slowing to a stop at the door. Against the door was propped a portrait they’d received as a wedding gift. A portrait of Livy. A gift from Brian. “If you’re going to insist on hanging this somewhere, do me a favor?”
“What?”
“Hang it behind a door that stands open most the time, will you? Or at the back of a full closet or something.”
“Richard.” She was cut to the quick.
“Now don’t misunderstand me, dear, it’s an incredible rendering of you. It is. But it’s… it’s like a portrait of your beautiful twin—the one without the birthmark, you know? It doesn’t even look like you without it.”
“The angle’s wrong. You can’t see it from that angle of my face.”
“Of course you can. Come here.” She stepped in front of him. Using her chin, he tipped her head to match the angle in Brian’s portrait. “Oh, sure. See. I can definitely see it at this angle. It’s not a true likeness. He probably painted you beautiful because he couldn’t paint your brain into the picture, and for me, your intelligence is your beauty.”
That stung her pride, even though she knew what he meant by it. There had been times when he’d said he liked her eyes or her smile or some other physical attribute—as any good lover would, she supposed—but he’d always made it abundantly clear that he was most attracted to her mind, and that how she used it determined her real beauty in his eyes.
At least he was honest.
He went off in search of something else he wanted to pack and left her standing there, staring at the portrait. She was having one of those weird déjà vu moments, as if she were reliving a memory… the memory of another portrait she had been proud of, another portrait that wasn’t of her after all.
She thought of the note that came with it: I think I finally got it right this time. Be happy. Love, Brian.
No Sorry I have to miss the wedding, I have other plans. Not a Can’t come to the wedding because I hate Richard and think you’re making a huge mistake. Nothing. No explanations. No excuses.
During the first few weeks after the wedding, she’d tried several times to call him—to ask why he didn’t come, to chew him out, to make sure he was safe, to end their friendship, to plead for forgiveness for whatever wrong she might have committed, to tell him about the wedding, to curse at him—but his line had been disconnected.
His mother was her only firm link to him now, and she believed he was on his way to New York.
New York.
She couldn’t remember ever feeling more alone. She turned the portrait to the wall.
“What am I doing here?” Brian asked.
A large, overweight man in his fifties with graying brown hair and hands the size of bear’s paws rattled the newspaper he was reading impatiently and answered mechanically, “You have been subpoenaed by Judge William Ogden Asher and the State of California to appear in his courtroom on…”
“I know that, but why?” Brian asked. Though the man was wearing a plain, off-the-rack brown suit, he had cop written all over him. Cops made him nervous. Guilty or innocent, it didn’t matter, he always felt deeply in trouble when they were around. “And why can’t I use my crutches instead of this wheelchair? I can get around pretty well with my crutches. They’re easier than this thing.” He smacked the arms of the wheelchair and felt a familiar frustration. He was on the mend, he reminded himself. He’d left the wheelchairs behind him, in the hospital. All those weeks of physical therapy meant he’d never have to sit helpless in a wheelchair again. But he hadn’t forgotten how it felt. The loss of freedom, the lack of control. A swift, staggering wash of fear consumed him whenever his mind touched on the realization of how close he’d come to losing it all. His legs. His hands. His life.
“If Judge Asher says he wants you wheeled into his courtroom, that’s what I’ll do,” the big man said. “I’ll wheel you in.” His voice was deep and sort of booming, as though he was talking through at large hollow pipe. He closed the paper, folded it in half, then tossed it on the table between them. There was a sad emptiness to the man’s eyes, as if he didn’t really care about anything one way or the other; he was just… there, putting in his time.
It was almost Christmas. Brian hadn’t been out of the hospital two weeks yet. He didn’t have gifts to send home for Beth and Bobby. His collect calls to his mother had been cheerful and reassuring and had contained nothing about the accident or the hospitals bills or… anything. He hadn’t made it to Livy’s wedding, hadn’t heard from her. He couldn’t work. The last thing he needed was cop troubles. What he did need was a drink.
His companion’s name was Cooper; it was the only name he gave. They were sitting in a waiting room with a table and four chairs—five if you included the wheelchair. Brian was barely conscious after the accident when Cooper showed up at his bedside with a subpoena, and to inform him that he’d be contacting him again after his release from the hospital—to make sure he didn’t forget to show up and to make travel arrangements if necessary. Maybe he should have talked to a lawyer, he thought. Too late.
He glanced up to find Cooper staring at him, considering him, as if trying to determine his species. Finally, he gave in a little and said, “Judge Asher always has a good reason for what he wants done. I don’t ask questions.”
Obviously. And obviously Brian wasn’t going to get any answers to his. He shook his head. “You’d think cops would have better things to do than to haul people all over L.A. just to make sure they show up in court… traffic court, no less,” he said with some derision, referring to the fact that Cooper had insisted on picking him up and delivering him to the courthouse in person—since Brian’s right leg was still weak and he couldn’t yet drive himself. Even Brian’s promise to hire a taxi or bum a ride from a friend hadn’t fazed him. “Nice waste of taxpayers’ money.”
“You pay a lot of taxes, do ya?” Cooper asked, giving Brian’s old jeans and older flannel shirt a smooth, amused once-over before adding, “I’m not a cop anymore anyway. I’m retired. I do this for fun.”
“For fun?”
He shrugged. “More for a good cause, I guess. And because Judge Asher is my wife’s uncle, and I like the way he does things.” He shrugged again. “And because it’s part time, so it doesn’t interfere with my other job.”
“Which is…?”
“I teach driver’s education in West Hollywood. Used to be a traffic cop.”
“I’m beginning to see a connection. Basically, the driving of cars has been pretty much your whole life, huh?”
Cooper stared at him for several seconds. “Let’s say the stupid, reckless, irresponsible, and dangerous driving of cars has pretty much been my whole life. And let’s say, too, that… people like you and your friend still give my life meaning.”
He said it so slowly and softly that Brian might not have known he was serious or exactly what he meant if he hadn’t seen the look in his eyes. He lowered his own from the stark pain and anguish and fury he saw in their gray-blue depths. And he remembered. Clearly, he was one of the luckier people this guy had had to deal with in his long career—and Brian knew it.
When he could look at Mr. Cooper again, he said, “I figured this had something to do with the accident I was in, but what does he want with me? I wasn’t driving.”
He smiled with closed lips. “He’ll explain it to you soon enough.”
Brian went back to the doodle he was working on, on the back of a bail-bonds flyer with a not-so-sharp pencil left by some other unfortunate wait-ee, no doubt. It was sort of a self-portrait actually, of his own hand holding the dull pencil.
“You’re pretty good,” Cooper said, leaning forward and to the right a little to see better.
“Thanks.” Almost without thinking, he added, “For a while after the accident I didn’t think I’d ever be able to do this again. One of the doctors thought there might be some nerve damage with the broken wrist but… I was lucky.” A pause. “It’s funny the way you take something for granted until you think you might not have it anymore, isn’t it?”
Remembered fear and panic rolled through him; it nauseated him.
When Cooper remained silent he looked up. The big man met Brian’s eyes straight on and he said, “There’s nothing funny about that, son. Nothing funny at all.”
Not long after, a female police officer poked her head around the door and told Cooper that the judge was ready for them. She waited at the big double doors under the sign that read Traffic Court, then held one side wide for them to pass through.
It was packed. It didn’t seem as big as some of the courtrooms he’d been in, but it was big enough to be impressive, to look like a place where some serious business was done. There were enough pewlike seats to cram a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty, people into it. Why they were all staring at him he couldn’t imagine.
“Ah. Mr. Carowack, there you are,” said a faraway voice. “I hope my summons today hasn’t been too inconvenient for you. A little closer, Coop, if you please.” A small, mostly bald man in the black robes of a judge was directing the room from high atop the podium at the front of the room. “Officer Green, please hold the gate open for them. That’s it, good. Thank you. And thank you for coming this morning, Mr. Carowack,” he said—as if Brian had had a choice.
Cooper had parked him about halfway between the court reporter’s desk in front of and below where the judge was sitting, and the two desks where the lawyers and defendants sat—right in the middle of everything, really—and then he’d gone off to sit in the crowd somewhere. Brian had a quick glimpse of his pal, Issy Jordon, with a man he assumed was Issy’s lawyer at the table to his left. But he kept his attention pinned to the judge. To tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, he was scared spitless. Cops were one thing; judges were another. His mouth was dry, his heart was pounding, his hands were sweating—and he hadn’t done anything illegal.
“I would imagine that you’re wondering why I asked you here today, Mr. Carowack,” Judge Asher said with a friendly enough smile. He wasn’t an unreasonable-looking man. Maybe not very tall, and thin, but with a certain presence that made him seem bigger than he was.
“Yes, sir.”
“If you will bear with me for just a few more minutes, I promise to make it perfectly clear to you.” Brian gave a slight nod. The judge read his name and address and asked if they were correct. Then he told Brian that he was not under arrest, that there were no charges pending against him, and that he was not being called as a witness in the case against Mr. Isaac Jordon, at this time—did he understand?
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Then, first, will you tell this court whether or not you were with one Isaac Loyd Jordon on the night of Thursday, September 16, 1974 of this year?”
He knew the date, and he figured Issy’s real name was Isaac. “Yes, sir, I was.”
“On that night were you a passenger in a 1967 Ford Mustang driven by Mr. Jordon?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And have you, Mr. Carowack, spent the greater part of the last three months in a hospital, unconscious and/or recovering from very serious, even life-threatening injuries sustained as a result of that 1967 Ford Mustang crashing into a retaining wall on Jefferson Boulevard, just off the Pacific Coast Highway, with Mr. Isaac Jordon behind the wheel?”
He turned his head and looked at Issy. He wasn’t sure what was going on but it didn’t feel like anything good. Issy’s expression confirmed it.
Obviously, the wheelchair was to make him seem more of a sympathetic character to the people in the room—the judge notwithstanding.
“Answer the question, please, Mr. Carowack.”
He took a deep breath. “Yes, sir. I was in an accident that night, in that car, with Issy… ah, Isaac… Jordon. I got out of the hospital about ten days ago.”
“Can you tell me, Mr. Carowack, what exactly took place that night and how the accident happened?”
“No, sir.” The judge’s expression switched from judicious to hostile in a blink of his eye. Brian stammered. “I mean… I would… if I could. I don’t remember much. I know it was raining.”
“Had Mr. Jordon been drinking anything alcoholic prior to driving the car that night?”
Again, he looked at Issy. He hardly knew the guy, really. They worked construction together sometimes. A fast-food place once and then the bank building just before the accident. Brian had taken the bus to work that day. The gas tank on his bike was leaking from somewhere; he’d taken it into a shop to have it worked on. He’d hoped to get a lift home from someone, and Issy had volunteered. He was a nice guy, friendly, did his job, didn’t ask too many questions. Brian liked him. He could remember being soul-sick at the thought of leaving for Tennessee the next day to attend Livy’s wedding. All summer long his heart had felt like stone in his chest, heavy and sore. So, when Issy mentioned wanting a beer or two before going home to face his wife and kids, Brian offered to keep him company—eagerly, gratefully, needfully.
“Was Mr. Jordon drinking alcohol, at any time, prior to driving the car that night, Mr. Carowack?”
“I think so. Yeah. Maybe.” This just wasn’t looking good for Issy. He didn’t want to be the one to rat the guy out, or make things worse for him. Hell, that could just as easily have been him sitting there next to the lawyer.
The judge sighed loudly and narrowed his eyes at Brian. He looked as if he had only a few drops of patience left in his bottle, and when that was gone, even he wasn’t sure what he’d do next. After a long moment he spoke quietly and calmly.
“For the record, Mr. Carowack, and just so you know where you stand here. This case has been thoroughly investigated, first by the California State Patrol, then by the L.A. Police Department, and most recently by my personal aide, Mr. Aloysius Cooper. This court already has all the facts. About Mr. Jordon. About you. It knows exactly what happened that night. Telling us anything but the truth as you know it will have serious repercussions for you, personally. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” he said, and it was. He felt dread in the pit of his stomach.
“Was he drinking that night?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.” He lowered his head as if reading something in front of him. There was an eerie silence in the courtroom, especially since there were so many people there. It was as if they were all waiting for a bomb to go off. When the judge finally looked at him again, he thought for sure he was going to be told to light it. “To be perfectly frank with you, sir, I hate people who drive drunk. If it were up to me, anyone caught drunk behind the wheel of an automobile would go to jail for at least a year, whether it was the first time they were stopped or their tenth time. And they would never drive legally in this state again.” He leaned both arms on his desk and raised his body a little higher and forward over his desk. “However, it is not up to me entirely and so I am forced to use whatever means allowed me, within the law of the State of California and the Constitution of the United States of America, to see to it that people like Mr. Jordon, who drink and then endanger the rest of us by driving, are stopped.” A pause. “Mr. Carowack, this court requests that you file a formal complaint of attempted vehicular manslaughter against Mr. Isaac Jordon”—a low murmur broke loose in the room, but the judge went on—“who knowingly put your life at risk by allowing you to be his passenger in a car he willfully drove while intoxicated.” In what appeared to be an afterthought, and more for the benefit of the audience than for Brian, he tacked on, “I, personally, would have you file on a more serious charge—attempted murder perhaps—but this is all the district attorney will concede to for now, as it is all that he thinks he can legally prove and win judgment for in a court of law. A sure win is what I believe he called it.”
Brian was stunned, couldn’t think, couldn’t move. The bomb was lit and he was suddenly holding it. He didn’t know what to do with it. Throw it back at the judge? Throw it to Issy? Let it blow up in his lap?
“I don’t think I understand, sir.” Stall for time.
“Of course you do. You speak English and I don’t stutter,” he said. Then, as if he was going to make the situation easier on everyone, he said, “I will tell you that the defendant has already admitted to knowing how dangerous it is to drive a car while intoxicated. I am asking you to file a formal complaint against this man for disregarding that knowledge, and for acting in a negligent manner, thereby placing you in harm’s way, when he allowed you to get into the car with him. I am asking you to put him in jail for the next one to three years and in doing so, make the streets of Los Angeles safer for the rest of us.”
One to three years in jail was all he heard. Issy had a wife and kids. He was an okay guy. He hadn’t had any more to drink than Brian. Hell, any other night it would have been him driving. Everyone drove home a little drunk sometimes—if they got stopped they got tickets, or fines, or their license suspended. They didn’t go to jail, for God’s sake.
And yet… somewhere, deep down inside him, in the place where his darkest fears ruled, he knew the truth. How close to dying did he have to get to accept and respond to it? Yes, his drinking had given him a certain amount of control over his life—numbing pains he didn’t want to feel, blurring thoughts he didn’t want to think. But without feeling, without thought, there was no control at all—of his heart, of his mind, of his body… of his drinking. He’d poured so much of his time and his money and his life into a bottle that he lived there now, inside that bottle, without freedom, without control, without… a life outside of it. And there beside one truth lay the other—a drunk in a car was a lethal and dangerous weapon.
“Sir? Do I… do I have to do this? What happens if I don’t press charges?”
The judge stared down at him for… forever it seemed; the look of disappointment and disgust on his face left Brian with no doubt as to what he was thinking. Brian couldn’t blame him, but he couldn’t leave Issy hanging either, not alone.
“If you fail to carry out your responsibility… your duty in this case, the Assistant District Attorney for the City of Los Angeles, Mr. David Westfield, sitting there behind you, has agreed to file formal charges on behalf of the State of California, and you will be called as an eyewitness to the incident. Should you refuse to do even that much, you will be subpoenaed again and forced to testify against Mr. Jordon. And should you refuse to do that, Mr. Carowack, you will go to jail.”
“But you can’t force me to testify about something I don’t remember. I’m pretty sure you can’t,” he said, twisting in his wheelchair to look back at the prosecutor. “I was unconscious for thirteen days. I had a head injury. I don’t even remember leaving the bar,” he told the man, sitting quietly with his hands folded on the table in front of him. He wheeled himself backward to sit next to him at the table. “Can he do this?”
The man sighed and took pity on him. He looked up at the judge. “Your honor, may I have a moment?” With his consent, they turned away from the judge, then kept their heads down to avoid the crowd behind them. David Westfield kept his voice low. “He can do everything he says, and he will, if you don’t cooperate. He’s not messing around. He lost a niece last year in a car accident. The driver was drunk… and he survived.”
“A niece?” Brian scanned the gallery, his eyes locking with Al Cooper’s. His wife—the judge’s niece. The sad, empty eyes…
“He’s not the only judge cracking down on drunk drivers these days,” he was saying. “But he is the most aggressive. He’s backed up his whole calendar today so that all these people would be here to see this. Probably half of them are repeat DWIs like your friend, but he’s the one who’s going to be made an example of, one way or the other. He has nine DWIs, man.” Brian’s stomach rolled. He had six, eight if you counted the ones from Oregon and Colorado. “Fines and suspensions aren’t stopping guys like him. All the judges are getting fed up with seeing the same people over and over… and the statistics of drunk driver-related accidents and the fatalities from them are…”
“I know. I know. I listen, to the news,” he snapped at him. He was terrified. He didn’t want to go to jail. “I’m sorry, but I honest to God don’t remember leaving the bar that night. For all I know I could have been driving. Maybe Issy was too drunk and I decided to drive. That could have happened. I do it all the time.” His mouth and eyes snapped shut on his last few words.
“Records state you were pried out of the passenger’s seat,” Westfield said, his tone no longer helpful and informative, but flat and unsympathetic. “And just as a warning, the judge had Cooper check you out, too. He’s got your driving record, so watch your step.”
He stood then and turned to address the court.
“Your honor, the People are inclined to believe that Mr. Carowack is unable to give clear testimony regarding Mr. Jordon’s physical condition at the time of the accident, and without it we feel unable to pursue this matter in a higher court. However, should the witness regain full recall of the night in question…”
“What! You think he’s going to run in here and let us know?” the judge broke in, his voice loud and angry. His face was red as he tried to control his breathing. He looked from Brian to Issy and out over the crowd of people in his courtroom. “Very well. I admit I am disappointed but I am not done yet, nor will I suspend my efforts to bring these criminals to justice. For criminals is exactly what I believe them to be.” He adjusted himself in his chair and took a bead on Issy. Brian started to sweat. He’d seen hatred like that before, knew the pain it could inflict. “Mr. Isaac Jordon, in light of the fact that this is your ninth conviction of Driving While Intoxicated, and that eight other arrests have failed to produce a punishment significant enough to cause a change in your behavior, I am imposing the maximum sentence allowed me under the law, which is six to twelve months in the county jail. Effective immediately.”
“Your honor.” Issy’s lawyer was on his feet. A police officer was heading for Issy with handcuffs. “My client would like to humbly request work-release privileges. He has a wife and two children.”
“I am sorry for his wife and children, but your client should have thought of them before he had a drink, and before he got behind the wheel of his car.”
“Yes, your honor,” he said, dejected. He said something to Issy and started to pack up his briefcase, as another attorney and client moved through the gate to take their place.
“I am not finished.” The judge’s words stopped everyone in their tracks. Brian, assuming he was now on his own with the wheelchair—being the memory-lapsed second party again and not a potential plaintiff—was half-turned toward the gate when he felt the judge’s gaze boring through the back of his head. He turned the chair slowly to face him.
“You’re a disappointment, Mr. Carowack. To me. To all of the victims of all the drunk drivers in this country. To your parents. To your loved ones. And whether you know it or not, to yourself. Do you suppose that one of the reasons you don’t recall the incident, the incident that very nearly put an end to your life, is that you were as drunk as Mr. Jordon that night? In fact, according to your hospital records, your blood alcohol level was actually higher than his at the time.” He didn’t seem to really want an answer from Brian. Didn’t really care what Brian had to say for himself. He was setting another example for those nervously awaiting their turn before his bar, and Brian was his target.
“If aiding and abetting a drunk driver was a crime, I’d nail you to the floor with it,” he said, his expression sad and serious… and threatening. “However and unfortunately, it’s not. So, I must lie in wait for you, young man, to reappear before this court as you most surely will because, according to your DMV records, it is your habit to drive while intoxicated, as well. So it’s just a matter of time. In fact, you might say that I am now gunning for you, Mr. Carowack. My advice to you, then, is either stop drinking or get the hell out of Dodge. The choice is yours.”