When Amy was questioned at the scene; when the police got her statement days later at her house; when she was testifying in a packed courtroom, she always told the same story, beat by beat.

She and Bret were heading home from a party at a friend’s place downtown. They both left early, at ten thirty, because they both had finals the next day, and they needed the sleep. There was alcohol at the party, yes, and drugs, too. They had each had a drink – which was fine, since they were over twenty one – but they hadn’t driven till several hours later. Every precaution was taken, so alcohol played no factor in the incident.

The highway was mostly empty at that time, because the only people who were out were heading toward downtown, not away from it, but there was one very noticeable car on the road, one lane away. For about two miles a red sports car revved up its engines as it passed them, then slowed down so they could catch up, so it could blow past them again. Bret had remarked how dangerous that kind of a thing was, and then suddenly it happened.

Bret lost control of the vehicle, through some unknown means. Whether it was the slick roads or the suspension seizing up or hitting a pothole that jerked the steering wheel, we may never know. But the front corner of Bret and Amy’s car caught the back corner of the sports car so that it began spinning out of control, till it collided with the concrete median and flipped into a light pole.

Amy looked right into Bret’s eyes as she told her story, watching him not even blink when she left out what he’d said right before the steering wheel jerked: “What if I just slammed into this jerk right now, and he spun out and died?” He’d said it with a grin, and she’d laughed, and then it happened. Just like that. She never really thought he was capable of something like that. She still wasn’t sure. So she kept it to herself. Ultimately there was no evidence to convict Bret of any wrongdoing, and he walked.