Part 1.

Last Sunday morning began like any other, except that our son and his family moved in two weeks ago following the sale of their home, until their new home closes escrow.

We are up two adult humans, one 2.6 year old child, and two adult canines which brings our dog pack to a barking, shatting total of five.

My grandson loves doughnuts, and Sunday is 'Doughnut Day'--a tradition we have fully embraced with Project Renesting.

Doughnut Sunday--Praise the Lord! While many families were receiving the Eucharist, this family received fresh baked goodness with sprinkles on top. The caloric stimulation was palpable in the car as we drove home from the bakery.

Then everything changed with a phone call.

As the five of us made a creeper-peeper drive-by the 'soon-to-be' home my son and daughter-in-law are in the process of buying, I received a call from my older brother:

"Mary, did you see the news last night about the hit and run in Maryvale?"

With that opener, doughnut ecstasy came to an abrupt halt with a gut punch to my stomach.

Blame it on the vitriol of the recent election, or the caustic energy of all things political, I've avoided the news like mosquitos avoid OFF.  

My brother proceeded to fill me in on a pedestrian who'd been struck, then dragged nearly five blocks to his death by a driver who refused to stop to administer aid or call for help.  A horrific scene.  My brother wondered as the story aired how someone could do that to another human being, unless perhaps they had gotten away with it once before...

"It happened just feet from where Mom was hit. I have a funny feeling about this, so I called Phoenix PD and spoke with a detective, wondering if it could be the same driver.  Do you still have Mom's police report information?"
When people tell me they have "funny feeling" about something, it tends to be on the mark. Intuition is a gift I take seriously. I have experienced a few too many prophetic dreams to ever dismiss the feeling as mere coincidence.

With that, my brother relayed the conversation he had with the detective, who provided the age of the driver being thirty-five, which would have put him at age 21 in 2002; the year our mother was T-boned as she exited the church parking lot following evening mass. The high-speed impacted her driver's side dashline, before sending her vehicle through a home on Osborn Road before coming to rest.  The other driver sped off, then dumped the stolen vehicle he was driving at a park five blocks away.

My mother survived the accident, with her pelvis broken in five places, as well as a broken tailbone. Following hospitalization and several blood transfusions for internal bleeding, my mother was expected to survive her injuries.

On her 83rd birthday, Mom was released from a rehabilitation hospital and moved in with my family. I was a stay-at-home mom at the time; able to provide the care she needed. Mom was mobile by then, participating in physical therapy and making progress with a walker. On October 29th, one month after the accident, she awakened with severe abdominal pain. I drove her to the ER, where she was admitted after a CT scan showed an infection.

A few days later, on November 1st, Mom woke from a nap in the stark hospital room and told me she dreamed of my dad--he was planting trees for her.  Mom was puzzled by the dream.  I was not and quietly prayed to my God, and my father.  We were not ready to lose Mom, and pleaded with them not to take her.  

Later that evening, Mom's kidneys began to fail.  She was moved to the ICU unit and finally diagnosed with a septic infection caused by painkillers upsetting the balance in her intestines.  The doctor began a new regime of antibiotics, but Mom died of septic shock within a few hours of entering the ICU.

My mother's death was a terrible blow to our family.

Nine months later, my nephew ended his life. He wasn't able to comprehend or accept the brutality of his grandmother's death. He had been diagnosed with schizophrenia in 2000, and struggled with the fury that took over his mind.  It was his father who called me with "a feeling" about the driver dragging a man to his death without remorse. Could he be the same person who after hitting our mother, leave the scene of the accident and walked away from the chaos he created, never to be identified or prosecuted?

If lightning can strike twice, my brother hoped Karma would deliver the impossible, linking the two vehicular homicides. It was a long-shot, and though the odds are slim to nothing, I couldn't dismiss my brother's "feeling."

My brother fired off the name and phone number of the homicide detective assigned to this victim's case, which I scratched on a crumpled receipt from Discount Tire that was laying on the console of the car. I promised I would follow-up with the detective.  I read up on the accident in the link my brother sent to my phone. As the details unfolded, it brought everything back.  

On Monday, I pulled the 3-ring binder containing our mother's unsolved vehicular homicide case from the safe.  My husband expressed doubt it could be the same driver and urged me not to get involved as it would reopen old wounds. 

Rita Lewis's children, grandchildren and friends know all too well the horror, grief, despair and helplessness this victim's family was now experiencing. The hammer of cruel injustice had arrived on someone else's doorstep. This man's family will have an opportunity to face the felon in a court of law, something my family has been denied since September 28th, 2002.
I laid the dusty navy blue binder on the corner of my vanity where it was ignored for most of the day.  I opened it that evening when the house was quiet and poured over its contents.

First up, the initial police report that arrived a few weeks following the aaccident.  It glaringly placed Mom as the party responsible for causing the collision.  It surmised she pulled from the church parking lot in front of the speeding stolen car. Yes, you read that correctly.  

Mom was devastated when the report came in. She couldn't understand how they could accuse her of being the responsible party.  She never saw the car coming.  She was adamant about having made a left turn and was heading west on Osborn Road toward home at the time of impact.  

Mom died with the knowledge the police officer at the scene deemed her at fault for her own accident.  She was burdened by the fact the woman who owned the home with extensive damage did not carry homeowner's insurance, and my mother's insurance company refused to pay for home repairs until their investigation was complete.

The company also refused to pay my mother her uninsured motorist claim as medical bills began piling up. They seemingly wanted it both ways. Then the police report arrived, declaring Mom at fault.

On the day of Mom's funeral, the damaged home opposite the church parking lot was undergoing repairs, to the tune of $15,000.

The insurance company accepted responsibility thirty-three days post-accident. I knew my mother would be relieved the innocent homeowner was finally having her home restored, even though it took assignment of fault being placed on her.

This marked a lesson for me in understanding the phrase "All in God's time." I had been an impatient wench, and God was teaching me a lesson I won't soon forget, in spite of the torment it took me to understand the lesson.
I worked for a Fortune 50 insurance company for nearly three decades, with ten of those years in auto claims.  The dynamics of the accident didn't make sense to me as stated in the police report. Specifically, the position of my mom's car at rest, as noted in the officer's report.  

In the thirty-four days post accident, I was busy taking care of my mom and my family. In the months following Mom's death, I was too overcome with grief to muster fighting the police department as to the accuracy of their report.  

I hated the unknown driver responsible for the domino effect he created that ended her life.  I hated the insurance company.  I was angry at God for allowing this to happen to the kindest woman on the planet, who at the age of 83, was in perfect health with more years of life to live.  

When my nephew died nine months later, I took on a renewed focus against the police report and the insurance company for its refusal to pay Mom's estate the uninsured motorist claim it was due. 

With a determination to do everything within my power to make things right in my mother's name, I refused to believe she was responsible for setting in motion the second tragedy to strike our family nine months later--the death of her grandson.  



To Be Continued -