YOU FIRST SAW ME, Webb Rowalski, palming the steering wheel, my white Buick, when I left the parking caverns of Albina Towers and surfaced in the daylight aboveground. You guessed beside me on the passenger seat I had a business case full of client papers I'd brought from the CPA offices of Ford, Black and Rowalski. So you thought me another dull-beyond-redemption accountant:
Who, his career going nowhere in Bismarck, reluctantly moved out west to Portland, Oregon. Who, twelve workaholic years later, had partnered at a medium-sized regional CPA practice. Who, home-frontwise, shared with a lovely wife and two children (even lovelier) an Irvington bungalow on Northeast 17th. Who, only out of habit, glanced both ways before joining what traffic there was on Lloyd Boulevard. Who, importantly, was old enough for the reading glasses hanging from their keeper cord about his neck.
Yes, you were mostly right to peg me, Webb Rowalski, so: dull but industrious, a middle-aged man driving eastbound with something less than complete attention.
For I was beat down and on my way to church. All of my partners do pro bono and mine--it's tithing in a way--is for the Church of First Christians. I'd worked up the financials from the books. All that stuff beside me on the front seat. That is what I am professionally licensed to do.
What I had was more bad news. Confirmed the empty space in the sanctuary pews was not going away. Suggested offering plates would not be filled. And where we were, cutting back would no longer work. I could only talk with Father Pauley, see how we'd present this to the Board.
I drove, feeling bad, not a lever to pull, not a button to push. What could I do? Shake churchgoers from trees? In these cynical, rude times, it's not popular to be a Christian. People say it's Pollyann-ish: trying to deny dismal reality staring you down.
Well, I, Father Pauley, and others were about to face our moment of truth and no rosy-glasses Pollyanna would set the church right. It would take both faith and persistence. The test of faith was upon us. That was my state of mind driving through the underpass where 16th dips way down past that old railroad right-of-way, completely overgrown with blackberry bushes. Vagrants, hoboes with dogs, lived in there.
I came up the road rise, my knot of worry a-building and then a gut-twister thought: Would we--and we wouldn't be the first to do so--dissolve the church if the money at last dried up? I stopped thinking, for where the road topped off at the cross street, the light was still green. I stepped on it, picked up speed, was going to make that light.
At the intersection, on the curb, was this kid. T-shirt, baggy shorts, everything torn and frayed. Hair stringy, greasy, and blue tattoos his arms over. He was talking on a cell phone, baseball bat in the other hand, looking to cross the street.
And as I say, there was the baseball bat. Due respect to the national pastime, the kid made me go tilt. I'll freely admit that. Never in your life you'd want to see your daughter bring home that sort of guy.
Next he was off the curb, the smart aleck.
He looked at me like I wasn't there. Was I supposed to slam brakes, stop a two-ton car, for him--this idiot who'd have anyone believe he lived out of a Dumpster?
I checked that the light was still green.
Before I'd accommodate him, those tattoos desecrating what body the good Lord gave him, I'd call his bluff. I was legal: green light and in-the-clear.
I floored the throttle. Let him guess what I thought of his nonsense, that prideful need to call attention to himself.
I had the sense a wind gust from the lunging car alone would blow him back.
Eyeball to eyeball, almost, and in a flash--aha--cockiness changed to wide-eyed surprise in his face.
Checked the light: still green. Then this filthy human being gone. Vanished. A thump. Not a hard thump, only a thump. From the back wheel.
In the rearview mirror, nothing. No cars. No pedestrians. Nothing. The other side of the intersection, I again checked the mirror. My solar plexus seized up.
On the pavement, actually sitting up, the grungy kid held a foot with both hands, sort of rocking about like he was in some pain.
Or was he?
I didn't know what to do.
I kept driving, figured this kinda kid was acting out, playing a game. A con. He'd walk up to a car passing by, fall down, pretend to be hurt. Then a shakedown for medical expenses.
Made sense, made me want to speed up, get away from there, except for one thing. That thump from the back wheel. That was his foot. Or was it? No, it had to be the baseball bat. He threw it under the car. Relieved, I kept driving.
Four blocks from the church, a black-and-white police cruiser came my way. He slowed, fired up his roof lights, twinkling red, white, and blue. I didn't want any speeding ticket, so I kept poking along. Stuck to twenty-five, residential zone, then my rearview mirror had the police car turned around, following me. A few blasts from the air horn and I nosed over to the curb, wondering what was up.
The officer explained a white Buick had been positively ID'd by plates in a hit-and-run down the street. With my car being hiked up for towing, I was chauffeured away in the police cruiser to the Northeast Precinct Station. There, the booking officer said I'd be held for questioning and could count on some jail time. I dreaded calling June, my wife. The kid was really hurt. I felt as humiliated as if I'd blown an IRS audit in front of our best client.
I also began to feel the police inquiry might stack the deck against me. In another room, the officer asked me to blow in a black plastic box, a Breathalyzer. "Why don't you test that jaywalker?" I said, trying to hold my ground. I was not at fault.
"We don't know all the facts, Mr. Rowalski. All we have is you leaving the scene of a pedestrian injury."
A Sergeant Kroll came in. He tried to relax me, asking about accounting, my church, how a good guy like me ever got in such a mess.
"So tell me," he said, "you feel that when this young man walked out in the street you stepped on the gas, maybe to scare him? Now, be careful how you answer that. You need to know the young man gave a statement to the officer on the scene. He claims you steered toward him, stepped on the gas, and tried to run him down."
I could barely control myself, not slam the table. What lies. I needed an attorney.
I didn't want to answer the question. Words of mine could be twisted, distorted if I didn't have an attorney with me. So I did a Christian thing, showed I had compassion: "How is he?" I asked.
"How is who?"
"That guy, the one I supposedly ran over, how is he doing?"
"I don't know where he went, and if I knew, I can't say how it's exactly germane to our discussion here." He shook a ballpoint pen like it was a talisman that would wrap everything up. I would sign a confession and Kroll would be on to the next case. "Back to where we were, simple question, You accelerate after seeing that kid?"
I hedged, I hedged. Something about climbing the hill, forgetting to let off the gas, the grungy kid in the street coming at me. But I knew I was on thin ice. A few questions later, I begged off: "I have to talk to an attorney and I don't have one yet."
Next stop was jail. Christian or not, I was there, charged with hit-and-run, being mug shot. And stripped of all clothing, save my BVDs, I put on shock-orange prisoner pajamas. Forget comfort. I had to wear them until June found an attorney to work my release.
Tell you the truth, my preconception about jail was wrong. No zoo bars. Instead, carpeted corridors flanked by cheery pastel walls, a TV glowing inside each small room we passed--a plushness some budget motels might envy.
At 428, my escort, a starched-uniform sheriff's deputy punched the keypad, opened the door. Inside a quizzical-looking Asian man, in his twenties, maybe his thirties, I couldn't tell, sat on a bunk bed and watched me.
The door shut.
The small TV had ten o'clock news. My cellmate said I got the top bunk. He had already taken the bunk on bottom from a guy before me. If I stayed long enough, I could take the bottom bunk.
"So you in for what?" he asked.
I told him.
He was in for car theft. Third time. "Coming here a cost of doing business. I recycle cars. Make owners buy car early, help the economy, no? Cars I pick taken apart expertly, fix other cars damaged. Recycling I do." He looped his hand about and grinned. "Help Mama Earth, no? By the way, my name Eugene."
I introduced myself, didn't mention my line of work. We watched the rest of the news, my troubles thankfully not a feature. Then at eleven the lights went out, the electricity being, my cellmate said, switched off.
Next morning, I was free. Said good-bye to Eugene--turns out his folks were Vietnamese and boat people who renamed him for where they first settled in Oregon. For a moment there, I wanted to meet the rest of Eugene's family, hear their story, but things were moving.
Yep, I left after some quick paperwork for the front desk. Met Mr. Gomez, the attorney June had found and the three of us talked out on the sidewalk. He quickly got to what might happen next: a lawsuit.
At home, I faced two kids. They had to know why I'd spent the night jailbound. "What happened?" Corey, my six-year-old, said.
"It's like this," I said, trying to keep the tone cheery, but not flippant. "I had a car accident yesterday. A young man fell by my car, but I didn't know it at the time and drove away."
"You hit someone?" Emily asked, sucking her thumb under her
upstretched T-shirt.
"Worse than that, I ran over his foot."
"Ooh, the foot come off?"
"No, I don't think so. I'm fairly sure he still has his two feet. Anyway, I just wanted you kids to know why I was away."
"Were you really in jail?" Corey asked, balling both his fists.
"Yes, until we got the money to get out."
Having to explain to the kids, and believe me, they asked questions for days, about being in jail was tough. I couldn't keep them from telling their friends about my stayover. They might even brag about it, one up on the other dads, I suppose.
And hearing "Daddy" and "jail" together in my own children's voices started to sap my sense of who I was. I'd worked hard to be responsible--a family man, a partner in the firm--with all that entailed. And then one snippet of time, during which I might as well have sleepwalked for all my awareness, and it changed. I was marched off and locked up, an irresponsible motorist who maimed an innocent bystander. Whatever anchored my belief that I might live a life of goodness was being badly tested.
I went to the church Saturday afternoon, though I should have been at work trying to catch up. Gray, spitting skies outside, the sanctuary was a respite, even with its unheated chill. I felt peaceful, blessed sitting there in the pew, two rows back from the altar.
Although alone in the sanctuary, I felt closer to the Lord. I began to pray the Lord's Prayer. My forearms and clasped hands rested on the hard back of the pew in front.
I prayed slowly, almost a breath to each syllable, to savor the meaning, to let truth bring my spirit life.
Then I prayed for the hapless young man. I prayed for the Lord to forgive me for judging him so severely on mere sight. And I asked forgiveness because I'd been prideful to think, legal niceties aside, I could get away with what I did.
"Webb," I heard a woman's voice behind me. It was June. She knew I was at church to pray. "Webb, Mr. Gomez called."
I stood, walked back to her. Something had rattled her. She moved with such tenseness. "What did he say?" I asked.
"He said the plaintiff's attorney called. That kid is going ahead and filing a lawsuit, wants more than two million dollars."
June's voice hitched when she said that.
"Was he at his office?" I asked.
I had to see Gomez. June again said he was highly recommended, a hotshot only a year or so out of LC Law School. And on the phone with him, I had every confidence he knew his stuff.
First thing Monday, I drove downtown and the idea of a
two-million-dollar lawsuit still dazed me. Choices were few. Either settle out-of-court or fight in court, hoping to clear my name too.
It was not an obvious choice and I needed to see Gomez to do anything.
A historical gem of a building in the Skidmore District housed the offices of Gomez & Quinn, Attorneys-at-Law, PC. Inside the front door, a dignified lobby with spiffy ceiling moldings gave a reassuring impression: Others before me had taken the building's one leisurely elevator to the third floor offices of G & Q. Others had, with proper legal counsel, kept their affairs in order. My nerves were settling, but I knew, as a fellow professional, this help didn't come cheap.
The woman at the receptionist desk buzzed Gomez, said I'd arrived, then offered me coffee. I declined, not wanting to encourage my jitters.
Gomez got off the phone. Jet-black hair, wearing stylish Ben Franklin glasses, he still was in his twenties and looked it. Yet when he talked, I took comfort knowing his uniqueness: He graduated tops in his class.
"I'm being sued--why?" I asked once we sat down in his office.
"Webb, the plaintiff's case stands on the leg the kid can't stand on, get my drift?" Gomez leaned forward, his face showing unemotional acceptance that personal injury always would be the lawyer's ticket to billable time.
"The kid was injured that badly? They got medical records?"
"Yeah," Gomez said, "doctor's statement here." He snapped a fresh manila folder against his desktop. "Dack Zuster's a real mess, right foot broken in about ten places--bones, ligaments--I wouldn't wager he'll ever walk again normally."
"So what do I do? It wasn't wholly my fault. He jaywalked, practically threw himself under the car."
"His attorneys gonna argue you were careless."
"I had the green light, how do they prove anything?" I realized my voice was edgy, panicky with the idea I might have run out of luck.
"First, the kid's on crutches. That alone has the jury's attention. Then you gotta assume Mr. Zuster on the witness stand will contradict all you say. You say he stepped off the curb, he was clearly out of the crosswalk. He says, he was right between the lines. See my point?"
"But he was going against a red light."
"Hey, and later we could find he's color-blind." His right index finger sprung out. "But now, you see, it's more like a you said, he said stalemate."
"Okay, what's next?" I slumped back in the chair.
"You choose how to respond."
"But if you were in my shoes?"
"Well, I can't see settling with these high numbers. That's a sure loss. I'd go to court, I like our chances. The facts should clear your name and save your financial worth, which, I assume, is not trivial."
"Yeah, I think that's what I want to do." I said, satisfied the harm I caused--though no fault of my own--shouldn't be a reason to frame me.
A month later, we were in a pretrial hearing in a gloomy wood-panelled room at the Multnomah County Courthouse downtown. The lawsuit had been my troubling companion for weeks. A companion I wouldn't shake soon: A young man on crutches had arrived.
Dack, as in Dakota, was smaller than the arrogant maniac looming in my path I remembered. Now, holding himself upright on the crutches was a shriveled version of that monster, a person, in fact, somewhat more my size. And gone were the Dumpster rags; he wore a suit and tie.
Dack swung his frame forward on crutches, trailed by a pair of attorneys, to the plaintiff's table. I realized that, legal matters aside, Dack was suffering. I could only keep praying for his healing. It was what I knew to do. The legal angle was Gomez's.
With everyone seated, the judge, in black robes, gave instructions. I glanced at my life's tormenting presence. In profile, I noted his hair was cut to where conceivably he might apply for a job in my office.
The judge mumbled away. This hearing would disclose relevant facts. Each side would outline a basic approach to spare the trial both surprises and needless delay.
At some point, the judge's voice rose: "Court's recessed until eleven o'clock."
"What does that mean?" I asked Gomez. He was, however, distracted--one of Dack's attorneys beckoned--and he left to huddle across the aisle.
Seconds later, he returned. "Listen, we're breaking for half an hour. Plaintiff attorneys want to talk, no clients present, okay?" Gomez winked like something was afoot.
I sat tight and watched him and Dack's attorneys leave like they were old drinking buddies. I wondered what new surprise would hit. I began praying silently for Dack--abandoned by his legal representatives too--once again mounting his crutches.
Twenty minutes later, Gomez slipped in beside me again, evidently excited that he had good news. "We got an offer. Ten thousand a year for the rest of the plaintiff's working life."
"Ten thousand for life? But he jaywalked."
"The whole problem is you kept driving. They're gonna prove a rational person in your situation would have concluded that he'd run over Mr. Zuster." Gomez paused for effect. "And stopped."
"So what are you saying? I'm really to blame?"
"Yes and no. But the plaintiff's attorneys were dropping big hints that they'd work lots of you left the scene."
I shrugged. I didn't know how any of this was adding up.
"Which means this offer is better than gambling with a jury on two million," Gomez added.
"But you said I could beat this." I didn't like being whipsawed. I wanted Gomez to put up more of a fight.
"Yeah, but that was before this offer: You get off for eight cents on the dollar."
"Ten thousand a year--I don't have that money."
"Wait, remember present value--I've got the exact figure written down here--is only $167,438."
"Okay, where do I get that?"
"You're gonna have to tap your house."
At that moment the judge came back. People rustled about, the bailiff asking them to sit down.
"I have to think about this," I said.
"You've got about fifteen seconds. It's their one-time offer and it's now." Gomez tapped a pencil on the table.
"What if I don't?"
"Simple, they go ahead, take their chances with a jury. Could be worth more than $600,000 for their legal efforts. You want to do that?"
"I'm out of choices, then?"
Gomez smiled the smile of a less than trustworthy dealmaker.
"Okay, there goes our home equity," I said.
Gomez motioned across the way and a few hand gestures and he invisibly moved most of my net worth across the aisle. I feared the next morning I might wake with aching regrets I didn't comprehend just then.
The judge called for order. The lead plaintiff attorney stood and asked to be recognized. "An agreement between the plaintiff and defendant has been reached, your honor."
Then another recess. The judge, Gomez, the two plaintiff attorneys met in judge chambers. Too quickly it seemed, they emerged and the judge announced particulars. Ten thousand dollars a year awarded to the plaintiff until age sixty-seven. An immediate sum payable with a commuted value of $167,438. "So ordered," the judge said, his voice rising. My fate sealed with a gavel rap.
Then something curious happened.
At this time, a fellow easy to overlook caught my eye. This short Vietnamese, who I swear was Eugene the car thief from my stay in jail, had come in the room. I wanted to ask him, Why the shaved head? He was this bald Buddhist monk and walked slowly forward, cat steps, to the knee-high railing behind the seated Dack Zuster.
I had the crazy idea he was going to reach over and touch Dack. But, no, he stood motionless, silent, his hands folded before him. Then Eugene lowered his head, closed his eyes, seemed to slip into meditation. Eerie.
The judge droned on. Documents the plaintiff to make available, when, where.
My attention shifted back to monk Eugene. Now I don't know Asian religions: Eugene the Buddhist monk could also have been Hindu, Shinto, Taoist, Janist, or, for that matter, Christian. I did know, however, he was praying, praying for Dack right there like I'd done. I knew that.
This went on for some time, then Dack pushed the crutches to one side. In fact, put them against the railing by the bald Buddhist, whom Dack smiled at, as if they knew each other.
One attorney whispered in Dack's ear. Dack ignored him, bent down to his foot with the knee-high contraption. Black nylon, black plastic fittings, lots of Velcro.
Then bald Buddhist Eugene opened his eyes. The judge had paused and no one was coughing. Prayerful Eugene looked at Dack and said softly, "You are healed." He bowed toward Dack with a beatific smile.
"Order in the court." The judge struck down the gavel. "Spectators, any talking in this courtroom and the bailiff will remove you."
The healer turned about and left, taking the mysterious inner smile with him.
Dack, the grace of goodness in his face, tugged the Velcro straps of the orthopedic boot and wriggled his foot free.
His attorneys, seemingly confused, nearly fell from their wooden swivel chairs.
"Order in the court. I insist."
"Don't take that off, our whole case depended on your permanent injury."
"I can walk," Dack said. His face glowed like sunrise. "I can't believe it, I am healed." He walked the aisle and kept walking out the courtroom with only the slightest of limps.
My neck, shoulders, and back suddenly flushed with joyful release. That nightmarish moment from five weeks earlier was thrown away. That spot where I crushed Dack's foot underneath the wheel of my car had vanished. I had witnessed a healing of Christ there among us. In the person of Eugene the Buddhist monk. This was my faith at work.
Gomez turned to me with an intensity in his eyes that wanted to burn paper. "We've been had," he spluttered. "No way you ran over his foot. Doctor's letter was fake. And those shyster lawyers."
I thought Gomez had taken leave of his senses. He'd reassured me about the gravity of the lawsuit more than once. "I thought you knew those attorneys, you acted chummy with them."
"Professional courtesy." He waved his hand dismissively. "Never saw a one of them before today. This is ridiculous. I've never, never seen anything as blatant as a healing in the courtroom. Can you believe it?"
I wasn't about to get into discussing faith with Gomez. Still I had be clear on what I was about. "As a matter of fact, yes." If once in my life, I were to see the miraculous happen in my life, I sure wasn't ready to deny it like Gomez. My faith hadn't gone sour on me. I knew that.
"Did you see how that Zuster smiled when he first saw the monk, like they knew each other? It's one big sham. I'm going to move for a dismissal of the award and, with your consent, go ahead and file charges for possible fraud." Gomez took a deep breath as if back on the dry land of legalisms, he had unmasked as ordinary the miracle of minutes before.
I decided to press him. "So you really don't think," I said, "the monk healed Dack?" The abandoned crutches leaned on the railing behind the plaintiff's table. This reminded me of crutches left to hang on the walls of that sanctuary back east where miracles happen quite often.
"No, I don't believe in fairy tales, why do you ask?"
"Then we disagree." Gomez had this look in his face, both incredulous and empty. I wasn't about to waste my breath. A conspiracy of no less than five people, three of which had to be licensed professionals was far less believable than the miracle we witnessed. "I believe that Dack Zuster was healed. And my faith means I might have to pay the money I owe him."
"So you don't want go ahead and put those crooks behind bars."
"No, I'm sorry. I think we're finished."
And so it was we sat there a few long minutes, Gomez cleaning his spectacles and tight-lipped about our stalemate. The bailiff fetched Dack from the hallway. And I sat there willing to do as Jesus suggested, Pay to Caesar what's his and to God what's his.
Did I learn anything else?
I now drive more carefully, more attentively. I wish, of course, for a another miracle to help my church get on firmer ground financially, but I realize that no one person can do that.
Mainly, I take the road as it comes.
One other thing, two days ago, I was driving down 16th where my car hit Dack. There on the same corner was another young man, dressed not unlike Dack. He held out his thumb, hitchhiking. I rolled the window down, asked if he wanted a ride. He said he'd been waiting more than half an hour and got in.
Part of the old me would have wanted to ask if he'd received the Lord Jesus into his heart. But I knew it was enough to simply share what I had with this young man and let it be.
We drove on through intersections and I felt as if my heart was, for one of the few times in my life, beginning to open. I was taking it in. Caring for others, this hitchhiker beside me. I was happy only because I finally knew I had much to give others, even complete strangers and I was no longer afraid. That was it, I was no longer filled with, as Paul would say, fear and trembling. I could have at that moment died straight away and known I was saved. Completely saved.
We drove on and the hitchhiker, as if in that intimate space of the car unknowingly shared my revery of reverence, said, "You saved me."