Carrie Weaver - The Road To Echo Point

A man broke through the scrub brush, legs pumping, Arizona Cardinals football shirt stretched tight across his heaving chest. Meaty arms swung in time with his sprint. And his eyes. There was a desperation to him—a man with nothing left to lose.

She’d seen that look. So many years ago, right before—

“What the hell have you done?”

Run.

Vi turned toward the dog, hesitated. The animal struggled to its feet. Three legs supported it. This dog would live, unlike the one in her memory. The one her father had killed in a fit of rage.

Stones skittered behind her.

Vi spun around. The man was almost on her.

Instinct had her muscles moving before any conscious thought. Blood hummed in her ears as she jumped to her feet. Her pumps slid on the gravel for a terrifying second before she dug in her toes for traction. Panic propelled her toward the car.

Door locks, ignition, reverse, gas. This time, she used the gravel to her advantage, sliding into a tight U-turn.

A look in the rearview mirror didn’t show her a thing. Just a big cloud of dust and her wide brown eyes, pupils the size of nickels.

“YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING,” Vi sputtered.

Surely the man wasn’t serious? He looked more like a cowboy than an officer of the court. All western, what she could see of him, from the cotton shirt with the mother-of-pearl snaps to the bola tie at his scrawny, weathered neck.

Trying to regain her composure, Vi glanced around the Echo Point courtroom. The imitation-wood paneled walls were decorated with the usual framed copies of the Arizona and U.S. constitutions. Old black-and-white photos of copper mines and cattle ranches reflected the history of the small town.

Scattered through the photos were color lithographs of dogs. Sporting dogs. Dogs with limp birds in their mouths, dogs pointing at unseen prey. And one color, eight-by-ten of a muscular yellow dog at the side of a man clutching a rifle. Thick black plastic framed the man’s glasses, a turquoise ’68 Ford Camper Special stood proudly in the background. All clues that this was one of Judge Tanner’s favorite photos from his younger days.

Vi swallowed the lump in her throat. She’d heard horror stories about skewed rural justice.

Judge Tanner looked over the rims of his reading glasses. “I don’t kid when it comes to adjudicating a case. Just because my robe’s at the cleaners, doesn’t mean this is a bunch of funny business. I take my rulings very seriously. Says here, you left the scene of an accident. Hit-’n-run.”

“I didn’t mean to imply I take the proceedings lightly. It’s just that…well, I did stop.”

“You didn’t stay to render aid or give insurance information. Hit-and-run. I can revoke your license.”

Vi bit her lip before a succinct curse could slip out. He had every right, and she had nobody to blame but herself. A hit-and-run violation, combined with a few past speeding infractions, could mean a suspended license.

Dread turned her into a one-woman perspiration factory. The lining of her blazer stuck to her back, moisture trickled in places she’d rather not think about.

She gulped. “I could lose my job….”

“Should have thought of that before.”

“I wasn’t thinking—”

“No. You weren’t. You weren’t considering that a child could just as easily have been in that road.”

The thought of maiming a child scared her as much now as at the scene. Maybe more. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. It was an accident. Just a dog…”

Vi glanced at the photos on the wall. “That didn’t come out the way I meant it.”

“I certainly hope not.”

Stepping closer, she murmured, “I—I’m not sure what happened to me. I’ve been under a lot of stress, my appointment was, uh, unusual. And when the guy with the dog charged at me, I guess I snapped.”

That was as much of the truth as she intended to reveal. There was no way she would describe the flashback, or the man she’d really thought was charging at her. The judge would have her in a straitjacket and pronto.

“I admit I made a mistake. I take full responsibility. The dog is recovering. I’ve offered to pay the vet bill…make things right.”

The judge addressed the dog’s owner, slumped in the front row. “Ian, will paying the vet bill make things right?”

“No. Not even close.”

Vi could feel her cheeks flush. “That’s not being reasonable.”

“Life isn’t reasonable,” the man named Ian commented.

She turned to get a better look at him. What she saw confused her. He could have been a WWF wrestler on a downhill slide. Stubble covered his chin, dark circles ringed his eyes. Exhaustion was etched in the lines around his mouth. And yet, the judge seemed to value his opinion. Maybe her knee-jerk reaction on that dirt road had been rash, but the man still intended to ruin her life.

She swiped her tongue across her dry, cracked lips. “Look, I’m sorry. Really, really sorry. But you can’t hold me responsible for the fact that the dog wasn’t leashed. And you’ve got to understand. I was afraid for my life.”

Judge Tanner leaned forward. “A. There’s no leash law in the county area outside Echo Point. B. It’s your responsibility as a driver to be prepared for the unexpected. C. While Arizona is a comparative negligence state, that applies only to civil litigation, not criminal. You can’t parcel out the blame. And finally D. Ian wouldn’t hurt a woman.”

Vi gulped. The judge might not look like the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he apparently was no slouch in the law department. Appealing to his sympathy was her best bet. “I didn’t know that…um…Ian was harmless. He looked dangerous. Put yourself in my place. A woman, alone, out in the middle of nowhere…suddenly a large, angry man comes running at me, yelling.”

The judge opened a slim manila folder and adjusted his glasses. “Ah, yes. Claims Manager it says here. Don’t imagine you intimidate too easily. Tell me about this ‘unusual’ appointment of yours. Who’d you meet? For what purpose?”

He was right. She normally didn’t intimidate easily. At least not anymore. She prayed that it had been the unique set of circumstances and not an indication she was losing all the ground she’d gained in the past ten years. She couldn’t go back to being that scared girl who jumped at her own shadow. The girl who thought black eyes and bruises were an everyday event. That all daddies drank themselves into a rage.

Drawing on her strength, her training, she tried to appeal to the judge’s professionalism. “Sir, I drove up from Phoenix to settle an auto injury claim with an elderly gentleman named Bob Johnson. He’s going in for surgery next week, and we wanted to get his accident claim settled first.” She leaned forward. “As I’m sure you are aware, if he dies before settling his claim, his relatives will no longer be entitled to compensation for pain and suffering.”

“So, out of the goodness of your heart, you came all the way up here to make sure old Bob’s grandchildren get a chunk of change, even if he croaks on the operating table?”

“Well, yes, in a manner of speaking.”

It sounded so cold. In her circle, it was considered more a mission of mercy. Besides, she liked old Mr. Johnson. That’s why she’d hung on to his file after her promotion from adjuster to unit supervisor.

“I’m surprised old Bob didn’t fill your behind full of buckshot,” the judge said.

“But he did, I mean, he tried. He chased me off with a rusty old rifle. The stuff sprayed all over the tree next to me. So, you see, I was rattled.”

A smile twitched at the corners of the old man’s thin lips, then vanished. “Be that as it may, it’s not an excuse for making a poor decision. Since you see the results of accidents every day, I’m sure you can understand how serious this is.”