‘Chris Williams, what the fuck happened to him?’ I asked. ‘Yeah, I know, I know what happened to him, I meant to say with him not to him, but do you think anything, do you think he would have had a fulfilling career had he not died in the car crash when Pokorny was driving while “under the weather,” or just been a former high school athlete with long sideburns?’
‘Good question,’ she indicated. ‘Maybe,’ she added.
‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘maybe. Maybe a state cop like his father,’ like a few of our classmates who were jocks at the time. ‘Now it’s the nerds, rather than jocks, who are the cool kids. Truth be told I don’t like either.’
‘I don’t blame you,’ she said. ‘Did you know there was a court case?’
‘I did, yeah,’ and I began to cite from it after a quick white-web search. Bret was guilty of manslaughter in response to a plea of nolo contendere, on the advice of his lawyers. However, he subsequently objected and asked the court to change his plea from nolo to not guilty, under new counsel. This reflected the contention that his first lawyers were conflicted, because they gave advice to another passenger in the car at Jackman, one Chip Foster, who couldn’t remember whether he couldn’t remember who was driving when the incident occurred, or whether yes it was in fact Bret Pokorny. It didn’t matter who owned the vehicle, because the rule of thumb was often “who is drunk enough to drive.” I’d happily let someone else take the wheel when it was my car if I could sit in the way back facing the rear window to minimize the impact of a head-on, and I would not be breathalyzed that far away from the action.
I also had the great good fortune to be the front seat passenger when a driver pulled out from an intersection when he should have waited for one more speeding car to drive down the hill because we avoided an accident by a split second. Danny Foster was sitting in the passenger seat behind the driver and the head lights of the speeding car were brightly in his eyes. He could see his life passing before him, until he escaped certain death. This took place in a school zone where the limit was 25 mph, and the speeding car was going at least 40. Still, this so-called driver shadowed us inevitably, even if it meant tracking us onto the frozen-over lake, to give us a talking to, to censure when he was exceeding the limit by a rather fair six to nine points off your license margin, until he let us have his mouthful and dismissed us, as if he was a citizen’s cop and had authority – and to play victim when he was the guilty party, as opposed to the minor flaw of declining to yield while operating under the influence. ‘Let’s us go,’ he said. ‘The ice is cracking.’ Which it wasn’t.
Danny was no relation to Chip, whose visual appearance in turn eludes me. Whatever, they were all junkies, Chris, Chip, Bret, Glen and Timothy, along with their alter egos Mary, Molly and Charlie.
“THE COURT: Is there anything else you want to say?
MR. POKORNY: No, Your Honor.”
Tim passed away quite young, well 56 years young, and this is sad I agree, because he was a gentle soul and he was probably a high value school bus driver and caretaker.
No less, this morning I received a piece of mail from the Met Police, advising me of an intention to prosecute. My high crime or misdemeanour? Going 24 in a 20. 24 in a 20. That is good nit-picking. It’s not like I shot Liberty Valance or anything.