I was driving north on Laurel Canyon toward Studio City. Halfway up the canyon, I noticed an erratic driver in a black BMW. He was swerving behind a white Lincoln Town Car inches from the Lincoln’s bumper. We reached a red light at Lookout Mountain Avenue. The BMW blared its horn and then pulled in front of the Lincoln at a weird angle blocking its path. The Lincoln veered into opposing traffic and sped through the intersection away from the BMW.
The BMW birddogged the Lincoln all the way up the canyon. At Mulholland Drive, the BMW pulled in front of the Lincoln again and came to an abrupt stop. The BMW reversed at high speed and smashed into the Lincoln’s front grill. Shrapnel went flying.
I passed the two cars and glimpsed the Lincoln’s driver. He was an old man, in his late-70s or early-80s. The BMW driver was a guy in his 20s with a shaved head. The BMW driver exited his car and trudged toward the Lincoln. The driver panicked and sped away. The BMW driver returned to his car and followed.
This was a classic case of road rage. Since an old man was involved, I followed the two cars in case he needed help. The vehicles descended the curvy road into Studio City. The BMW resumed swerving and honking behind the Lincoln. The Lincoln turned onto a residential street. The BMW initiated a dangerous maneuver, pulling in front of the Lincoln at a 90-degree angle and screeching to a stop.
I watched from a distance as the BMW driver approached the Lincoln, forced open the door and pulled the old man into the street. The BMW driver began punching him. I honked. The BMW driver looked towards me. Though it was night, I saw that his face was covered with tattoos.
A black Mercedes stopped behind me. I assumed the driver witnessed the incident and was there to help, like me. The Mercedes driver exited his car and walked toward the combatants. He was also in his 20s with olive skin. I rolled down my window.
“That guy’s beating up an old man,” I said in a panic.
The Mercedes driver glared at me. He had close-cropped hair and rugged features. He spoke with a Russian accent.
“I witnessed whole thing,” he said. “Lincoln driver caused accident.”
“What are you talking about,” I said. “That BMW cut him off.”
“Not your business,” he said. “Leave or you get hurt.”
He reached into his trousers as if reaching for a weapon.
I sped away, terrified.
I drove to Ventura Boulevard and pulled into a lit parking lot. I called 911 but was put on hold. After several minutes, I decided to drive in search of a police car. I stopped at a Winchell’s Donut shop and there was a private security vehicle parked in front. I saw a guard eating donuts inside. I ran into the shop.
“Sir, there’s a young guy attacking an old man up the street.”
The security guard gave me an indifferent stare. He was rotund with acne pockmarks on his face.
“I’m on my break,” he said.
“The man’s like 80 years old. He needs help.”
“Where?”
“Sunshine Terrace.”
“That’s not my beat.”
“Come on, man. It’s your job,” I yelled.
“I’ll call it in,” he said. He casually reached for his phone. At that moment, I heard a voice from 911 finally answer my phone. I‘d been on hold for 10 minutes.
“911,” a woman’s voice said.
“There’s an old man getting beat up by a 20-year-old. The younger guy followed him a couple miles then intentionally reversed into the old man’s car. There’s another guy involved who claimed to witness everything. He has a Russian accent. I think it’s a scam.”
“Slow down, sir. Where are you?”
“The two cars are at the intersection of Laurel Canyon and Sunshine Terrace. I’m about a half mile away. I tried getting a private security guard to do something but he’s doesn’t want to get involved.”
“The police will be there shortly. Stay where you are in case we need to contact you.”
I returned to my car and caught my breath. After 15 minutes, I returned to Sunshine Terrace. I parked a block away and walked toward the scene. I saw flashing lights and two police cars. The old man was seated on the sidewalk holding a handkerchief to his head. The BMW driver was speaking to a police officer. The Mercedes driver was talking to another officer.
I approached a third officer standing beside his car.
“Officer, I saw the whole thing. I’m the guy who called 911.”
The officer pulled out a clipboard and asked questions. I recounted the entire incident saying, “I’m certain the Mercedes driver is in on it. He said the old man rear-ended the BMW. That’s a total lie.”
The Mercedes driver glared at me from 20 feet away. The officer taking my report noticed him as well.
“You might want to leave now before we let those guys go,” the officer said.
I walked to my car and drove away. I made sure to avoid the accident scene so the scammers wouldn’t get my license plate.
Two weeks later I received a call from Allstate. The insurance agent said they wanted to record my testimony about the accident. I was hesitant at first, unsure if they were legit. I took their number then called them back to make sure it was actually Allstate. It was. I told the agent everything I witnessed.
A few months later I sat in the waiting room of my dentist’s office in Burbank. I noticed a local newspaper called the Burbank Leader. The front page featured a prominent headline: “Local Insurance Fraud Ring Busted.” I picked up the paper and read the article.
Eight people from a Glendale area Armenian gang were arrested on suspicion of auto insurance fraud after allegedly staging multiple car accidents. Several insurance companies were swindled in excess of $180,000.
I had no way of knowing if this article was connected to the incident I witnessed. If so, I’m proud to have played a part in taking these jerks off the street.
