The Voting Machine

At Fault

Several times in my life, I've been saved from certain death. I am not really sure why. It's easy for a man to die before his time. There are so many little variables in the cruel chaos of the world that can flare up and conspire against you for no reason whatsoever.

It's harder to understand what can save you. Maybe it is the hand of God. Maybe it is pure, random math, a pair of cosmic dice that doesn't know right or wrong. I think it's a combination, God is watching that pair of cosmic dice and every once in a while He can tip it in your favor. That's why I call it a random miracle.

What happened on the 405 freeway my last night in LA was a random miracle. After the black Mercedes knocked me into the truck, I bounced around the lanes like a pinball. I ended up skidding backwards, flipped in the opposite direction for a full view of the wall of advancing headlights.

The next thing I knew I was on the shoulder of the road. My car had spun off to the side, gliding out of the path of collision. I forced the brakes and brought my car to a stop on the dirt before it tumbled down the slope to the surface streets.

My legs trembled as I stepped out of the driver-side door. It took all my strength to stand straight and keep from falling.

"You OK?" A man asked. He'd stopped his car just to see if I was injured.

"You saw that black Mercedes? You see the guy who hit me?"

The Good Samaritan gave me a vacant look. He had no idea what I was talking about.

Before I knew it, a California Highway Patrol car arrived on the scene. Then came an ambulance. The medical technician asked me some basic questions and tested my movement. I didn't feel any pain. Remarkably, there was no sign of injury.

The CHP officer asked me what had happened and I told him about getting swiped by the black Mercedes.

"So you're sure this car hit you? You're sure it went over the line into your lane?"

Of course I was sure. It wasn't my fault. It was the Mercedes.

The cop didn't seem convinced. He watching my body language and following my eye movements. His partner interviewed other drivers who'd pulled over or brought their cars to a halt to avoid a pile up. No one said anything about a black Mercedes. Everyone was staring at me like this whole thing was my fault.

The officer took me to his patrol car and held a breathalyzer to my face.

"I am going to need to ask you to take a sobriety field test."

"Let's take him back to the station, first," his partner said. "We've got to clear this off the freeway."

The CHP station was right off the intersection of the 110 and 405, a few blocks from the old Passion building. The cops ran me through a series of tests in the parking lot. They did the breathalyzer. Then they did the nystagmus test, tracking my gaze by moving a pen side to side in front of my eyes. Then they did the walk-and-turn to check my balance. After that, they declared me under arrest for driving under the influence.

"This wasn't my fault," I said. "I told you I got hit by a black Mercedes that knocked me into the truck."

"Mr. McCarthy, your BAC is off the charts, way over the legal limit. I've never seen these kinds of levels. I am going to refer you for a drug test as well."

"This wasn't my fault," I whimpered.

"This was totally your fault," the officer yelled. "We talked to four other drivers caught up in this thing. Nobody saw any black Mercedes. You are one hundred percent responsible. That's exactly how the police report is going to read. The state of California doesn't pussyfoot around with drunk drivers, Mr. McCarthy. You're looking at a misdemeanor with jail time. And that's a best-case scenario. You better hope no one else on that freeway got injured. If anyone of those drivers so much as broke a toe, you're looking at felony charges."