“Help! Help me, please! He’s trying to kill me!”
We were at a stop light, sitting in the sweltering Southern California summer heat, to which we hadn’t become accustomed in our first three weeks of living here.
“Help!” The haggard young woman screamed in desperation through the tiny crack in her car window, with a baby in her lap. Our heads turned to the car next to us, startled by the scene. A grim-faced man with jaw set and eyes riveted ahead sat in front of the frightened woman. Claire rolled down the window, making the cries louder and more gripping.
“Please! You’ve got to do something! He tried to run me over!”
“Jason, we’ve got to do something!” Claire asserted, as the light turned green and the beat up hatchback jolted forward and began turning right. “Follow them!”
“What? Follow them? I’m not sure that would be a good idea.” I stammered. The thought terrified me.
Claire wasn’t accepting that for an answer. “We’ve got to help her!”
I had already passed through the intersection, somewhat waveringly.
“Turn around and help her!” she persisted.
Very uneasy, I turned the car around and then made a left turn through the yellow light, in hot but reluctant pursuit. We followed the car into the parking lot of Camping World. The man jumped out of the car and rushed to the payphone. We pulled up, and Claire jumped out of the car, spilling a huge pile of important papers that I was taking home from work. I panicked as they went with the wind, scrambling to recover them while Claire opened the door of the other car and helped the woman and baby out, squeezing them into the back seat with Hilary and Amelia.
“Oh, thank you, thank you, oh, he tried to kill me!”
As we rushed away, I just knew gunshots were going to follow us. But glancing in the mirror, the man continued his phone conversation. I sped down the street to our new apartment, and to Claire’s urging, parked next to a different building, and rushed our kids over to our building and through our door, slamming and locking it. Trembling and heart racing, I called the police.
Meanwhile, Claire was trying to persuade the woman, who she determined was named Sharon, to follow her into our apartment. However, out of fear and panic, Sharon disappeared behind another building. Claire chased her calling, “Sharon! Sharon! It’s okay! We’ll help you! We’re calling the police! Sharon!” But she was gone.
Telling my story to the police, they said they would send a squad car to our complex, stating that there had been reports a few minutes previous that someone had seen a man trying to run over a woman and her baby.
Claire was still searching when the officers arrived. They looked around for a few minutes as well, but soon gave up the search and returned and asked us to give a statement. They asked us if we would be willing to make an identification or testify at a later date, to which we agreed.
A few weeks later we were subpoenaed to testify in this domestic abuse case, so we took the day off and went to court. After waiting for what seemed like forever, a frustrated attorney came out of the courtroom and informed us that the plaintiff had never shown up, which meant she was dropping charges and the case was dismissed.
We were at a stop light, sitting in the sweltering Southern California summer heat, to which we hadn’t become accustomed in our first three weeks of living here.
“Help!” The haggard young woman screamed in desperation through the tiny crack in her car window, with a baby in her lap. Our heads turned to the car next to us, startled by the scene. A grim-faced man with jaw set and eyes riveted ahead sat in front of the frightened woman. Claire rolled down the window, making the cries louder and more gripping.
“Please! You’ve got to do something! He tried to run me over!”
“Jason, we’ve got to do something!” Claire asserted, as the light turned green and the beat up hatchback jolted forward and began turning right. “Follow them!”
“What? Follow them? I’m not sure that would be a good idea.” I stammered. The thought terrified me.
Claire wasn’t accepting that for an answer. “We’ve got to help her!”
I had already passed through the intersection, somewhat waveringly.
“Turn around and help her!” she persisted.
Very uneasy, I turned the car around and then made a left turn through the yellow light, in hot but reluctant pursuit. We followed the car into the parking lot of Camping World. The man jumped out of the car and rushed to the payphone. We pulled up, and Claire jumped out of the car, spilling a huge pile of important papers that I was taking home from work. I panicked as they went with the wind, scrambling to recover them while Claire opened the door of the other car and helped the woman and baby out, squeezing them into the back seat with Hilary and Amelia.
“Oh, thank you, thank you, oh, he tried to kill me!”
As we rushed away, I just knew gunshots were going to follow us. But glancing in the mirror, the man continued his phone conversation. I sped down the street to our new apartment, and to Claire’s urging, parked next to a different building, and rushed our kids over to our building and through our door, slamming and locking it. Trembling and heart racing, I called the police.
Meanwhile, Claire was trying to persuade the woman, who she determined was named Sharon, to follow her into our apartment. However, out of fear and panic, Sharon disappeared behind another building. Claire chased her calling, “Sharon! Sharon! It’s okay! We’ll help you! We’re calling the police! Sharon!” But she was gone.
Telling my story to the police, they said they would send a squad car to our complex, stating that there had been reports a few minutes previous that someone had seen a man trying to run over a woman and her baby.
Claire was still searching when the officers arrived. They looked around for a few minutes as well, but soon gave up the search and returned and asked us to give a statement. They asked us if we would be willing to make an identification or testify at a later date, to which we agreed.
A few weeks later we were subpoenaed to testify in this domestic abuse case, so we took the day off and went to court. After waiting for what seemed like forever, a frustrated attorney came out of the courtroom and informed us that the plaintiff had never shown up, which meant she was dropping charges and the case was dismissed.
I was baffled. How could someone possibly drop charges against someone else who deliberately tried to run her and her baby over? Since then, I've learned that this is actually common, and women live with this kind of abuse much more than you or I would ever guess.
In spite of this unnerving event, we loved living here and we didn't let it shake our determination to survive in hot, expensive, sometimes frightening Southern California. That is, until six months later when we were pounded by the Northridge earthquake. But that's a whole 'nother Welcome to Sunny Southern California blog post!
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4 comments:
I remember when that happened. It's so cool you saved someone!
Well, just when I think I know everything about you...what a perky Saturday morning post! Thanks a lot!!JLO
I love and miss SoCal. I have to tell you though I still hate night time street noise. I remember when I was young and the helicopters and spot lights would fly around the neighborhood looking for people that would freak me out, so I would shut my window and die from the summer heat (I was just sure who ever they were chasing down was going to jump in my bedroom window) The man that lived next door was a crazy guy addicted to porn and he would go out to his garage which was right next to my bedroom window and be up all night doing crazy things out there when his wife was asleep. You have all these cool stories about growing up in Utah, mine are all about growing up in Southern California.
I had a very similar experience in Las Vegas. I think the abused often see the helper as temporary and the abuser as permanent, so the abused will appease the abuser even at the expense of the helper. Too bad for everyone involved...
-Doug
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