Case File #036 Crash! Pow! Rattle.
6:27 AM. NW DC. He rammed my car.
Audio Version Included
Crash! Pow! Rattle.
Like a 1960s Batman episode.
“What the [REDACTED] are you doing?!”
I really couldn’t believe it, though I don’t know why. Dude had just rammed my car.
This was supposed to be an easy serve. The subject lived in NW, not far from American University. I knew the neighborhood. I had served bbq sandwiches at a campus event there once. Different gig, different life. Joan Jett was there.
The subpoena had something to do with his business. Money. A lot of money. Pretty standard stuff.
So I knocked and I waited at the door. I could hear people inside: faint voices, movement. By this time, after hundreds of knocks, I had learned to watch the curtains.
And yep. One moved.
Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.
No answer.
I drove away.
Ok. This wasn’t going to be an easy serve. But now I knew his vehicle. Black Honda Ridgeline. One of those weird truck-SUV hybrids that had just started showing up. I hated them on principle.
And I knew where his business was located. I’d give it until tomorrow morning. These kind of guys started early.
The next morning I was sitting in a pristine NW neighborhood, engine off, windows down. It was early but the sounds of the neighborhood waking up were building. I had already grown sweaty, even at that time of morning. DC humidity can be oppressive.
No coffee. If you drink coffee, you need to go to the bathroom. If you need to go to the bathroom, you need to leave, or worse, pee into some bottle. Neither is great.
Seconds. And I mean seconds after I had settled in and started making my notes, I glanced up and he had his key in the car door, getting into the Ridgeline.
I was too far away to rush him. So, I followed.
We didn’t have far to go. Traffic was light. He pulled into his business, bright and early. First one there. Good business owner.
I followed him in just ten or twelve feet from his bumper, giving up any pretense of being sneaky in this one egress parking lot.
Suddenly, he stopped. Hard.
This guy was not surprised by me. This guy did not want to be served.
I avoided hitting him, but not by much. Immediately I jumped out of my car (I didn’t wear a seatbelt, different era) with papers in one hand and my trusty Maglite in the other.
He was screaming profanities as I walked up to him, still sitting in his car. Throwing in a threat or two. This guy was on edge in a highly visible parking lot in a better part of town.
His window was rolled down. I leaned in.
“You’re served.”
I tried to hand him the papers. He wouldn’t take them. He opened his door and bumped up against me, still threatening.
Note: He was white, blonde, about twenty-five years older, six to eight inches taller, and easily had thirty pounds on me. Speed was my only advantage.
I dropped the papers inside his window.
“You’re still served.”
That was the end of that. Or so I thought. It wasn’t necessary that he touch the legal documents or be happy with receiving them. Many bluster. Some threaten. Most just accept it in the end.
I turned to walk back to my car.
Then—
Crash! Pow! Rattle.
The sound of metal on metal. My bumper crumpling. The whole car shuddered backward.
Dude just rammed my car.
This really didn’t fit the profile.
As I stood there in amazement, he accelerated forward, flipped the Ridgeline around, and sped toward the exit. No, he didn’t try to run me down. In fact, he made it clear by taking a wide path. But he was still yelling threats as he pulled back onto the street, speeding away.
I looked at my watch. 6:27 AM.
After making a note of the day and time I sat in the parking lot writing out a full report in my spiral notebook. Then I got back out and walked around my black Ford Escort.
Definitely drivable. But ugly. Even for a Ford Escort.
As I was getting ready to leave, an employee pulled into the parking lot to open the store.
“You ok?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
I made another note. Description of the person, car, tag, and time. Then I headed to the local precinct to fill out the reports. The cops weren’t all that interested but the legal world loves a paper trail.
When I got back to the office after stopping a body shop for an estimate, the owner was there. He was always no-nonsense. Tall. Always a little ragged looking. The office always had the faint smell of alcohol from the night before, no matter what time of day. I’m not testifying that the two are related.
We seldom saw eye-to-eye. He had called me a neophyte a few months earlier. I had to look that up later that day. Webster’s definition wasn’t exactly complimentary.
He looked at the car. Gave me a name to call.
His attorney.
“How much do you want?” the attorney asked when I met him in person. He was direct and to the point and after settling my nerves by walking the two blocks to his Rockville office I responded, “I just want my car fixed.”
“No, son. Civil suits are not about getting your car fixed. They’re about additional damages. Money. That’s what civil suits are. How much are you thinking?” the jaded professional asked again.
“I have an estimate for about $2,480. I just want my car fixed.”
He looked at me like I was wasting his time.
Truth be told, he was the first lawyer I’d ever sat with in a situation like this. I was raised non-privileged. Self-responsibility. Figure it out. I made fun of some of the papers I served because I liked to read through them, and so many were just ridiculous.
“I work with your firm all the time. You’re missing a chance to get a payday here. You were damaged.”
“I really just want my car fixed,” I repeated for the third time.
Three days later, I had a check. $2,480. Exactly what I asked for.
I later learned that guy had his whole life crashing down around him. His business was failing. His marriage was falling apart. Who knows what else.
In DC, image and status matter. They’re closely guarded.
He wasn’t mad at me. He was losing his world. I was the proverbial last straw.
The lawyer was right. I could’ve gotten more. But I didn’t want more. I just wanted my car fixed.
Question:
The lawyer asks: “How much do you want?”
You’ve got a crumpled car, a police report, and a subject who just committed assault.
Do you:
Take the payday (sue for damages)
Just fix the car and move on
What’s your move? Debate it in The Detective’s Lounge.
The Clue Game
What I Remember About That Day
The subject drove a black Honda Ridgeline.
The crash happened at exactly 6:27 AM—I checked my watch immediately.
The employee who witnessed it was driving a red Chevy Celebrity.
My repair estimate was $2,480. I got a check for that exact amount three days later.
The lawyer’s office was in Rockville, above a Chinese restaurant that’s still there today.
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A Chris Writes, LLC Publication
Not legal advice / not professional guidance / do not imitate tactics
Fictionalized/composite/altered details + no identification intended
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