The Color of Deception: An Ironic Black and White Tale of Love, Tragedy, and Triumph

by Frank Perdue

  Marge Hunter would not give in. She was so afraid that her son would just run away if things got too bad at home. She wanted him to learn life’s lessons, but she wanted him to find out the easy way, not by confrontation. Her son’s welfare was about the only thing she wouldn’t back down on. Of course big John was furious. Usually he could bully her into agreement. This time however, she stood her ground.

  They had a huge shouting match. When John’s deep, gruff, authoritative voice couldn’t budge his wife’s position, even though she seemed to cower slightly, he stormed out of the house. He hadn’t talked to Marge since. He went in to work early that evening. He missed a night’s sleep, and was nearing the end of his shift when the call came in about an accident on the freeway.,

  As he approached the final curve before the accident scene, Highway Patrolman John Hunter reached down and turned off his siren. After all he didn’t want to seem overly dramatic. The highway ahead of him was clear now, thanks to the road block back at the Airport exit. He left his flashing light switch on. He didn’t see the sprinkling of autos on the shoulder just before he entered the curve. He had other things on his mind. His foot remained firmly on the gas pedal. If anything, the speedometer needle moved upward slightly.

  County roads often parallel the super highways. They are needed for access to various farms and businesses. They offer an alternative to the high speed freeway system. Often there are roads on both sides of the major route.

  Shortly after Joanna and Jake had gotten on the Interstate, Jake realized that he needed gas, so they exited to the access road a couple of miles west of the airport. There was a gas station there that sold the brand he was most comfortable with. After gassing up Jake made a right turn leaving the station. To reenter the Interstate he should have turned left. After traversing in the wrong direction for about a quarter-mile, he realized his mistake. Joanna had been busy looking at a road map she had picked up at the gas station, and did not see him make the wrong turn, or she would have gently corrected him. He decided to continue east on the county road to the next freeway entrance. It was a fateful decision.

  When she returned from making the emergency call, Joanna rushed to the accident scene. The smoke had pretty much dispersed by then, and the smell wasn’t as strong. She had heard the screech of brakes, the wrenching sound of metal on metal, the screams of terror, the loud ones that is. She could not hear the soft, almost private sound of mothers and children sobbing. Just out of range of Joanna’s hearing was the cursing of men who knew it was too late to change what had happened out there in the middle of nowhere.

  Joanna exited the car on the passenger side, leaving the door open for no reason. At that point in time she was incapable of remembering that there even was a door. She was filled with apprehension, knowing that , when she reached the top of the rise that Interstate Five was built on, a terrible scene would greet her. What if there were young children hurt? Surely she could do something.

  While climbing the gradual incline that would take Joanna to the freeway, she slipped on the grass left moist by the now departed fog, and fell flat on her face. When she first tried to rise she slipped again. By the time she finally made it to the top and had firm footing on the concrete, she was covered with grass stains on both her hands and the white lace top she had chosen to travel in. There was a spot of mud about the diameter of a thimble on the point of her nose, and her chin was scraped slightly. All of these things she forgot when she saw the devastation on southbound Interstate Five.

  She tried to locate Jake; first by scanning the accident scene from left to right to no avail. She encountered a black couple lying on a blanket on the concrete. The man appeared to have a broken arm. The woman, though breathing, didn’t move.

  “Is she hurt badly?” Joanna asked.

  “I don’t know” Daryl Collins replied. “She’s been out since the accident.”

  Then Joanna remembered that she had brought a pillow for the trip to Tahoe. She said she’d be right back, and hurried back to the Chevy. Of course she slipped on the grass again, this time going down. She slid on her sore rump all the way down the hill; a distance of about twenty feet. Quickly regaining her upright position, she hurried to the car. She wondered why the door was open. Finding the pillow where she had stored it on the back seat, she scooped it up in both her hands, and started the perilous journey back up to the accident scene. This time she took short deliberate steps and managed to make it unscathed.

  She gave the pillow to Daryl, who gave her a thankful smile.

  “You’re an angel” he said. “But it would help more if you’d put it under my wife’s head. I’m not moving too good with this broken arm. As least I think it’s broken. It hurts like hell.”

  Joanna gently picked up Sophie Collins head and placed the slightly smudged pillow under it. Sophie moaned, but didn’t wake up.

  “Help is on the way.”

  “How do you know?” Daryl questioned.

  Joanna told him briefly about making the call. “Jake, my fiance, is here somewhere. I’m trying to find him.” She described him.

  “That sounds like the guy who helped us. He saved my wife’s life.” Daryl glanced at the still burning hulk of their Chrysler. “If that’s him, he’s back near the last car you can see.” He pointed west.

  There, under the smoke that seemed to hover just above her line of sight, was the silhouette of a man standing in the middle of the concrete. He had to be a hundred yards away.

  The next thing Joanna saw was flashing blue and red lights, and she felt a rush of relief.

  She heard the screech of tires as the black highway patrol car came into full view. The car seemed to veer slightly away from Jake, but there was no time to completely avoid him. Joanna’s elation quickly turned to terror, and she screamed “Jaaaaake!”

  Jake didn’t react right away. Maybe he was exhausted, or perhaps the silhouette she saw was at first turned toward her. Whatever the reason, by the time Jake tried to move out of the way, it was too late.

  The left front fender of John Hunter’s patrol car struck Jake with tremendous force. He was thrown into the air in an arc that would reach about twelve feet above the pavement. His body landed thirty feet from where it had been launched. He didn’t hear Joanna scream his name. He didn’t hear anything. He died the instant the car collided with his body.

  When Joanna saw her lover catapulted into the air, she started toward him. She took only three steps before collapsing. Her head hit the pavement with such force, that had she not fainted, she would have been knocked cold by the blow.

  The Highway Patrol car skidded to a stop, finally, just a few feet from the now lifeless body of Jake Gentry. Inside, John Hunter cradled his head in his hands. He was stunned. Suddenly he began to cry; deep racking sobs that shook his body. He wasn’t crying for the dead man. For he must surely have been killed. No, he was crying for himself, and his lost career.

  Hunter was never in it for anyone but himself. There were many selfless officers out there, but he wasn’t one of them. He was Big John. He looked good in the uniform. He was in charge. He was the Man. He liked the power he had over people.

  He looked for an excuse for what happened. What was that guy doing in the middle of the highway anyway? If there hadn’t been a rise in the roadway that obstructed his view, he would have been able to stop in time. He felt better. He stopped crying.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  It is the type of story newspaper editors salivate over. A major accident is one thing, and worthy of much ink, with the lead usually on the front page, dependent upon what kind of a news day it is. On some papers the story and pictures are relegated to the local section of the news. National headlines take precedence in most cases. A crash that involves many vehicles, and results in loss of life will surely make the local papers page one above the fold. What happened on Interstate Five northeast of Sacramento on that January day of nineteen seventy made the front page of papers, large and small, all across the
country.

  The headlines were varied but all had the same theme. “Hero saves lives, but gives up his own!” or “Hero dies, after risking life to save strangers!” The copy was long and flowery and made readers weep. It captured the imagination of people from the lobster coast of New England to the rocky shores of western Oregon. It was the number one story everywhere for about a week, but after the first few days most of it was a rehash. There was very little background information available.

  It wasn’t that the journalists didn’t try. They just couldn’t find out much about Jake Gentry, and his girlfriend was in the hospital in a coma. The Highway Patrol had found the couple’s abandoned car on the shoulder of the frontage road. They knew it was Gentry’s from the registration certificate. His residence was listed as an apartment in San Francisco.

  At first it had been thought Joanna Thomas was a victim of the accident itself. Then the police found her purse in Gentry’s car. There was a new dress, shoes, and hat in the back seat of the red Chevrolet that, along with the note supplied by Anna Heis, led authorities to believe that the two star-crossed lovers were on their way to Lake Tahoe to be married. That’s the way it was written.

  In Jake and Joanna’s apartment in San Francisco, they found some of his clothes, and personal items with his name on them. Then the trail turned cold. No one in the area knew Jake, or any of his friends, or even if there were any friends.

  There were no pictures of the man in the apartment. The only photograph ever used in the newspapers was one taken at the scene of the accident by a police photographer. It showed the crumpled figure of a man on a background of dirty gray concrete pavement. Without a caption it would have been impossible to recognize who it was, for the victim was lying face down. His Driver’s License was never used. The quality was too poor.

  During the first week after the accident, Beulah Thomas was located. News- hawks hounded her for a few days, but they learned little. Joanna had never mentioned her boyfriend to her mother.

  After about three weeks the story ran its course. Joanna was still in a coma, and it was as if Jake Gentry had never lived before he moved into her apartment

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  When Joanna saw the police car bearing down on Jake she screamed. Then, when her lover was hit and thrown into the air it was too much for her. Her brain shut down, and she passed out. As she fell, her right temple slammed into the hard surface, fracturing her skull, and putting her into a deep sleep.

  At first she was taken to a small hospital in the area of the accident. When the full extent of her injuries became known she was transferred by air evac helicopter to San Francisco General. An operation was performed to stop some swelling near her brain and save her life. The attempt was successful, but she remained in a coma.

  The only visitors Joanna had in those first weeks were her mother, her brother, and Anna Heis. She did not wake up. The athletic department at San Francisco State University had a huge bouquet of artificial flowers delivered. The attending physician wouldn’t allow them in her room, fearing contamination of the sterile environment. They were stored at the hospital for presentation when she was out of danger. No one was sure when that would be.

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  There were spinoff articles beginning to show up in the larger papers of San Francisco, and picked up by many others in shorter, or condensed form. One had to do with Patrolman John Hunter and his actions leading up to the demise of an innocent citizen. It seems there was an internal investigation going on, focusing on Hunter’s speed as he approached the accident scene. News from the investigating panel was muffled by higher authorities, but there were enough leaks to make a short series of pieces that ran on the local pages. He was suspended while the investigation ran its course. There was much speculation that he would be fired. Meanwhile, Hunter’s wife left him, and in fact disappeared, taking their teenager with her. It was rumored that her husband had no idea where they had gone.

  Another story focused on the farmer who started the whole chain of events by torching his rice field against county regulations. It appeared that he would only have to face a misdemeanor complaint. If the deed had been classified a felony, he could have been charged with murder or manslaughter. When someone dies in the commission of a felony the perpetrator is liable to the more serious charge, but that law doesn’t apply to lesser offenses. It appeared that ‘Rence Hostetler would get off with just a hand slap. Of course he was ostracized by his neighbors and fellow ranchers. They would have nothing more to do with him. That included his intended, Melanie Chapin. It seemed certain that he would also move to another state. “Good riddance.” echoed his former business associates and acquaintances. He didn’t appear to have any friends.

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  When it became known that Bob Brodinski’s weather forecast contributed to the decision made by ‘Rence Hostetler to start the fatal fire, the Weather Service did not publicly censure or suspend him. Granted, that would have been an overreaction on their part. What they did do was allow him to transfer to another Weather Service Office. His tenure with the government was under review.

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  Milt Yamaguchi was so disturbed by what had happened that he considered quitting his job. He talked to the Meteorologist in charge of the Forecast Office. It was decided he would be granted some vacation time; time that he had coming to him anyway. He went to the Big Island to see his parents and decide what to do. Of course his father was happy to have Milt back on the ranch. The fact was, he was very proud of his son and the life the young man had made for himself. In the end Milt returned to his job determined to do his part to protect lives and property, which, after all, was the primary function of the National Weather Service.

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  “Accident survivor to be deported” headed a column that appeared in the Sacramento Sun during the third week after the horror on Interstate Five. When the Immigration and Naturalization Service read stories relating to Tomas Acuna’s ordeal, they did some checking and found that he was in the country illegally. They then initiated the process of returning him to Mexico. Tomas himself could not do anything about what was happening, because he was still in a Sacramento hospital recovering from his burns. In any case he had no political voice with which to protest. His prognosis was for complete recovery after some skin grafting on his right arm and leg.

  The story about Tomas infuriated the legal Mexican community all across Central California after the wire services ran it. Letters began pouring in to the INS, the Governor’s office, and the Democratic head of the Legislature, Mike Rosen. Rosen lobbied Immigration to grant Tomas a green card, which would allow him to remain in California as long as he was gainfully employed. The strategy worked. To the young Mexican it was a miracle. He vowed to study hard and obtain his American citizenship, so he could send for his family.

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  Perhaps the saddest story of all concerned the fate of Sophie and Daryl Collins. When the paramedics finally arrived there was much work to be done. One team had come in from the west and began helping at the rear of the accident scene. Another ambulance came in from the east on the freeway, and the crew, which included a doctor from Sacramento, crossed over to the overturned milk truck of Tomas Acuna. By this time Sophie Collins was in full labor. Daryl began screaming for help for his unconscious wife. The doctor, who had begun attending to the burns on Acuna, looked west to pinpoint where the screaming was coming from. Tomas told the Doctor “My injuries are surely not as serious as others. Please go where you are needed.”

  The doctor nodded affirmatively, and turned to one of the attendants. “Stay here and apply the cream to his wounds.” Then he rose and broke into a run toward Daryl Collins.

  Though the distance was not far, the out of shape doctor was huffing and puffing when he finally reached the black couple. Sophie was writhing and moaning. Her eyes were closed. Her husband, also nearly out of breath, gasped “Our baby’s coming! Please do something.”

  The doctor gentl
y eased the girl’s legs apart. “The baby’s head is visible. We’ll have to take it here.” Unable to elicit any help from the mother, and fearful of damaging the child, the physician gently guided the head of the baby out of Sophie’s well dilated vagina with his fingers, being careful not to exert much pressure. At the same time a paramedic who had followed after him, pressed gently on the upper part of the bulge just under Sophie’s huge breasts. Soon the child, who was a little girl, glided out of the womb and into life. At the same time Sophie, who wanted this baby so much, breathed her last.

  When the story was told, the young widower, with a new baby named Sophie, received many cards and letters. Though he appreciated all the support, one letter in particular helped him to cope and finally come to grips with the death of his loved one. He felt strongly that the thought might help others, so he took it to a newspaper and asked if they would print it. After reading the letter, the managing editor was happy to oblige.

  It read:

  “My dear young man,

  I am writing this because you are feeling the pain now that I have felt so many times over the years. Losing a loved one is the hardest thing we have to face in this life. But we must face it! And I have found a way to do it!

  You see, I am eighty-three years of age. I have seen most of my friends die. Yes I can use that word now. For a long while I couldn’t. One of my children has also preceded me in death. I would gladly have changed places with him because he was my son. I would also willingly have substituted for each of my friends after realizing what I now do.

  I believe that death is one of the three great adventures of life. No one knows what to expect when they pass through that last door. Is there a Heaven? No one knows for sure. Is there a Hell? I could care less because I know I would qualify for Heaven.

  Oh, by the way, the other adventures are your birth, and the first time you are married.