I've got TWO great stories...
My Dodge Dakota was stolen when I lived in Lakeland, Florida, and stripped for the custom parts (State Farm ROCKS...gave me full value of the custom stuff, and fair value for the truck!!!). I FOUND the parts on another truck (one-off custom wheels, custom parts specifically modified to fit), and gave the Polk County Sheriff a license plate number...not once, but twice. "Well, since the insurance company paid you, you're not the victim any more, they are and they need to file the claim. Basically, we're over-worked, and won't be following up on this." No joke. I couldn't believe it, but that was the end of it as far as Polk County Sheriff was concerned. Yes, Florida is a cess pool.
Second story: Last March went on a road trip to pick up my '62 Chevy Suburban and drive it home from Joplin MO to Atlanta. On the way home, swung into Memphis to eat Pig & Whistle BBQ. Wanted a picture of the new truck under the big pink neon pig. While walking back across the road, I got hit by a drunk driving in the "no driving" marked middle lane, driving with his headlights off. Threw me through the air about 15 feet. I got up, limped back to him, had some calm discussion (cuz I didn't want to spook him) and when he saw me reach for my cell phone he hauled ***.
My 10 year old greets me at the curb and says "What was THAT all about?" I said "He hit me with his car!!!" "Oh," he says, "I WONDERED what you were doing on his hood."
Ambulance gets there and checks me out (wrenched ankle, but it was my gas foot and not my clutch foot), a very sore butt, and sore elbows (I landed on them...Dad always preached to protect your head in an accident, and that honestly went through my brain as I was going through the air, so I landed in a sitting position), but otherwise fine. When the officer asks me for a description, I describe what happened, describe the car, and give a description of the man driving it. As soon as I mentioned the ethnicity of the guy driving, the cop stopped writing and said "We won't find him." But it's only been ten minutes...he turned right at that light. Don't you at least want to put a description of the car out in case anyone else sees him."
No, he says. "There was no damage, and no injury--you've refused medical treatment, so you aren't injured. It would be between you and him, and we aren't going to get involved in that." With that he put his note pad away. I said "Aren't you even going to at least take my name, in case he feels guilty and calls or something." So he took my name, address and said good night. When I asked him to point me to a pharmacy so I could get some Ibruprofin and an ACE bandage for my throbbing ankle, he said "I don't know where any are," got in his car and drove away. While I watched him leave, I saw a big red Walgreens sign half a block up the street. I could have walked to it if my ankle hadn't been so sore. Wrapped it up, popped two Ibruprophin, and drove from Memphis to Atlanta the next day. Other than that, the whole trip went very well.
So, that's my hit and run story. That's two strikes with scum bags, and the police wouldn't do anything. They aren't here to watch out for us...next time, I'm taking it into my own hands, and there will be only one version of the story when it's time to ask this clean-cut, white mid-30s family man who has NEVER been in any trouble with the law what happened.
-Brad
