Tommy Sullivan had been in prison once before the accident. Six months for a half-dozen petty thefts. He’d stolen phones and wallets, usually without a weapon, but on one night, with the threat of a six-inch switchblade. The night before he killed Violet, he was paid for helping out at the warehouse over the previous week. Tommy picked up a case of Coors and brought it across town, over to his buddy Lou’s house around midnight. They split the case while watching old WrestleMania VHS tapes. A dozen beers each. Lou provided the weed. Tommy and Lou drank until the sun rose.
All of a sudden it was morning, and Tommy had to drive his younger sister to work. Tommy got in his rusted-out silver F150 pick-up. He drove right through the red light and killed a pedestrian. Her name was Violet. He’d barely noticed the light, slamming on his brakes at the last instant. He killed her in a flash. Blood and guts all over the hood and windshield. Tommy started vomiting after he stumbled out of the truck. The police came. That was that.
Except that was just the beginning. The trial was delayed. The pro-bono lawyer kept missing the appointments they’d set up. Tommy read over California Penal Code 192(c) for vehicular manslaughter about twenty times and he assumed the jury would find him guilty.
—While you were driving a vehicle, you committed a misdemeanor crime or infraction or lawful act in an unlawful manner, and;
Yes, he was driving drunk and high. He killed a woman.
—Your act was dangerous to human life under the circumstances; and;
Yes, he was driving drunk and high. He killed a woman.
—You committed the act with ordinary or gross negligence, and;
Yes, he was driving drunk and high. He killed a woman.
—Your act caused the death of another person.
Yes, he was driving drunk and high. He killed a woman.
Tommy dreamt about the old man who screamed in the courtroom. The widower of the woman he’d killed. He’d seen the man out of the corner of his eyes when he was led in and out of the courtroom for those four days of trial.
Tommy spent the first few months at Lompoc in a daze. Staring up at the peeling paint on the damp ceiling of his cell, getting colds and trying to find quiet moments. Tommy listened to his cellmate go on and on about his mistakes. Then the guy would say, “Jesus time!” and be quiet. Finally, Tommy was transferred and found himself with a quiet cellmate, who had serious body odor. The guy was older. Was due to be released in a year or so. Tommy couldn’t get him to talk about what happened. The guy read a stack of comic books most days.
Tommy wondered if he’d ever be able to find the man and be given a chance to apologize. As prison became his routine, Tommy’s guilt gradually morphed into compassion for the family. After the first year, nobody bothered to visit him. Only his uncle Jimmy wrote to him, and Tommy could barely read the writing. Jimmy wrote variations on the theme of “Don’t Give Up! You’ll only be 35!” Tommy laughed to himself, when he realized the 10-year sentence meant he’d be 37, but he appreciated Jimmy’s gesture.
Every weekend, Tommy called his mom and then his sister, but they rarely picked up the phone. When they did, it was only for a minute or two and they sounded defeated and unhappy to be reminded of his existence. Tommy discovered there was a welding course at the prison. He hadn’t gotten into trouble or started any fights. Mostly kept to himself, playing board games with other solitary guys.
Battleship, Othello and Yahtzee were his favorites. He spent his nights imagining what life would be like on the outside in 2023. On the occasions that guys forced him to give oral sex, he had done so, almost automatically, only asking that they not be brutal with him. Most of them obliged. At first he’d hated himself and shriveled up even further, but over time, he’d managed to find gratitude for the fact that he hadn’t been penetrated, and the routines were just routines.
Tommy was glad for the opportunity to work. He started in the cafeteria, on soups. Mostly chopping vegetables and browning the red ground beef and pale chicken. At the end of high school, he’d worked in a fried chicken restaurant, mostly as a dishwasher. He’d become friendly with Rico, the line cook. A few times, late at night, Rico showed him how to grill burgers and deep fry the chicken. He worked in the cafeteria for the rest of his time at Lompoc.
Throughout that time, Tommy wondered about the old man, hearing echoes of that primal scream he’d howled, the scream that echoed around the courtroom after the verdict was announced.
Eight years later, Tommy was 36, starting to gray around the temples and in his beard. After cashing out at the prison, he boarded the Amtrak with about $900 in his pocket. Spent $30 for the ride from Lompoc down to Ventura. His sister lived there with her boyfriend. She agreed to let him stay for a few months, as he got back on his feet.
For that first week or two, Tommy slept better than he had in years. They had a dog, who clearly sensed Tommy needed some affection. An aging pug named Rory. The dog dragged its back legs behind it like it was carrying a giant suitcase up a flight of stairs. Tommy gave Rory belly-rubs and ear-scratches for hours at a time. It helped him recognize his own body.
Finally, Tommy called the lawyer. The phone line was disconnected. It was nine years ago. Then Tommy called the courts and got the run-around. Finally, he went a nearby private investigator with his sister. He explained the situation and asked how he might locate the man whose wife he’d killed. To write him a letter, if he was still alive and had a current address.
In group sessions, with a career coach, Tommy had learned not to call it an “accident” anymore. He’d killed someone, even though he did it without meaning to. His choices had led to him killing someone with his truck. He’d done it and needed to write to the old man and apologize. Not ask for forgiveness. There was no forgiving him, Tommy figured. But he could tell the man that he was sorry. Tommy hoped the black cloud might lift, or at least to lighten into dark gray.
The lawyer helped Tommy find the address. The home was in Santa Barbara, up the hill.
Tommy sat down at his sister’s computer to try and type the letter. He wasn’t good with computers or with keyboards, but she set it up for him and opened the document. The man’s name was Jules Green. Tommy began typing.
Hello Jules,
I’m not all great with words. I’ll keep this short. I’ve spent nine years behind bars. I deserved all nine of them. My choices led to me driving my truck through that red light. Your wife did nothing wrong. She was a person walking on a street, walking on a sunny morning. I was a mess. Drunk off my ass and stoned. With my truck, I was a danger to everyone. Your wife died because of me. I can’t take it away. I’ve lived with this every day since. I’ll die with it. Her life shouldn’t have ended like that. I’m sober now. Done with prison. When I earn some money, I will send you a check. For you and your wife’s family. That’s all I can think to do.
Sincerely,
Tommy Sullivan