Read Online Drive Time by Hank Phillippi Ryan - Free Book Online

rude to take your sound bites and run. Plus, I just thought of something. “Back to the accident. When you were driving the rental car. The air bag on your side didn’t go off, did it? Did you ever find out why? Did the police ask about that?”
    “Hardly.” Declan Ross is dismissive. He pushes up the sleeves of his navy turtleneck and blinks, briefly, after looking directly at the megawatt light pointed at his face. People only do that once.
    “The cops couldn’t get out of there fast enough as soon as they saw we were all okay. Once they realized I hadn’t gotten the license plate—how could I? They were like, ‘Well, we’ll be in touch.’”
    “Have they been?”
    “Nope. And they sure didn’t seem too optimistic about finding the guy. Now I check out every car that goes by, trying to find him myself. Bastar—I mean—oh, I shouldn’t say—” Ross, suddenly flustered, looks at me.
    “It’s just tape,” I say, waving off his embarrassment. “Not live television. You can start over, no problem. And I understand you’re upset.”
    “Upset that we’ll never find who did this,” Ross continues. “Cops don’t seem to care.”
    “Well, it’s an unfortunate reality,” I say. “If no one was hurt, it may not be worth their time to charge someone with driving to endanger. A trial could be tough. Because the other driver, forgive me, could say it was your fault. Or that it happened because of the icy road.”
    Declan Ross shakes his head. “It’s just not fair. It was a rental car. And I didn’t get the extra insurance. So now, I take the hit. And my insurance premium does, too. Someone should find that car, you know? Find that damn driver and take his license. Force him to pay. He could have killed my children.”
    I pause, leaving a beat of silence so that juicy sound bite is easy to edit. And he’s right. Someone should find that driver. Maybe Franklin and me. Maybe there’s a bigger story we’re missing.
    “Mr. Ross?” Franklin’s voice. “Sorry to interrupt. You said you ‘check out every car that goes by.’ So did you see something recognizable? Even just the color of the car might prove helpful.”
    “Daddy?” a voice comes from somewhere behind me, then the squeak of rubber on hardwood floor. Gabriel, in gigantic rubber-soled running shoes, runs to his father’s knee. “Can I be on TV?”
    Ross wraps one arm around Gabriel, then in one motion lifts him up and deposits him on his lap. In his floppy New England Patriots T-shirt, all ankles and knees and ears, the little boy looks a lot less scared than he did by the side of the road.
    I decide to play along. After all, we have all we need. “So, Gabriel, who’s your favorite football player?”
    Gabe looks dubious. Football is not why he’s here.
    “It’s was like I told you. Like I told Daddy,” he says,stolid and serious as only a five-year-old can be. “It looked like my blue Matchbox car.”
    I’m silent. Franklin is silent. Behind me, almost in a whisper, J.T. says, “Still rolling.”
    “What kind of a car is that? Do you know?” I ask. I’m interviewing a five-year-old. How reliable can he be? Can I even use this on the air? But he’s on his father’s lap and his father isn’t stopping me. I keep my voice gentle.
    “Did you see the car go through the toll booth on the highway? You know the toll booths?”
    “Yes. I saw it going. It went fast. Then our car went bang.” His lower lip begins to pooch out, his long eyelashes cobwebbing with tears. “And Sophie was really crying. And Daddy wasn’t talking.”
    Forget the camera. In one motion, I’m off my chair and crouched in front of him, eye to eye.
    “Gabe? Can you go get your Matchbox car for me?”
     
     
    The uniformed factotum at the guards’ desk is barricaded behind a chin-level Formica fortress strewn with black vinyl ring binders I know are sign-in sheets. His back is to an array of tiny TV monitors, some flickering grainy black-and-white video