How Could You Do This?

On October 22nd, 2006, a car carrying five teenaged boys crashed into a telegraph pole, killing all but the driver. Now, the driver is facing court, having pled guilty to four counts of dangerous driving resulting in death. He is nineteen.

Today, he fronted Lismore District Court to hear the impact statements of the parents and they were, in short, horrific. Of course they were. These people have lost their children, and lost them in a cruel, sudden, unexpected way. They read morgue reports of their sons faces having been ‘blown off’, their ‘heads exploded.’ They are suffering tremendously. They always will.

But so is the driver.

Everything he does for the rest of his life, everywhere he goes, everyone he meets, everything he tries to become, will be coloured by that night and its grisly outcome. What is being achieved of reminding him of something that he would think of every day and every night – something that he was involved in on a level we can never appreciate? He was next to his friends when their faces were blown off, he wore their blood and he will for the rest of his life. The grief is wracking. The guilt would be poisonous.

Yes this young man should pay what he can for his mistake. Yes the families of the deceased must be black with grief and may never get over the tragedy that befell their family. But no one, no one knows more than this kid. I understand the family’s need to blame, to direct their sheer anger somewhere. And I understand he is the obvious choice.  But no one knows that more than he does.

He did something people do everyday. Those five boys in that car on that day driving down that road at that speed were the unlucky ones. Dreadfully unlucky. Dreadfully stupid. But not with the intent to harm, much less the intent to die. While I know it is pointless to speculate, I am going to go out on a limb and guess each boy in that car felt as invincible as the other that day, as they drove down that road at 30km/hour over the speed limit. Not one of them foresaw what awaited them, as the result of a bit of harmless, albeit stupid, fun. Not one of them could have imagined how they would pay in the way you see in speeding ads, on billboards and in magazines. The fact that they did is not because the driver got into that car with the intent to walk away from a car accident as the lone survivor out of all his friends.

What is being achieved by having this boy, three years after killing four of his mates, listen to the gut wrenching despair of the deceased’s parents? By having him hear that his split second of stupidity causes them unfathomably deep and overwhelming grief? He, of all people, knows that. That ‘split second decision’ is and always will be his life. He will never escape that.

If the aim of having the person charged with the crime hear the victim impact statements, is to result in the perpetrator experiencing remorse, and essentially ‘learning from their mistakes’ then for a mentally adjusted person who made a poor decision that resulted in dire consequences, the entire exercise is pointless. He did not intend to kill his four mates, and you can bet your bottom dollar the remorse he feels, he can taste every day of his life.

This boy will never make this same mistake again, and he will suffer enormously for it, alongside those who lost their children – because he took those children away from them. And he will do this with or without the mother of one of his best mates revealing she sometimes lies on her son’s grave to be closer to him, and with or without being asked in front of his family, and families he has known for years, ‘how could you do this?’

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Image by Lambdachialpha on Flickr

About Olivia Hambrett

Liv Hambrett is the Editor in Chief of Trespass. She has a weakness for the Scandinavian pop scene, doughnuts, and escapism (among many other things). She routinely pours cups of tea and forgets about them, buys international glossy magazines even though they highlight her fashion, fiscal and physical shortcomings and has lost count of how many perfumes she owns. This doesn't stop her from buying more. One day, she will write a bestselling book, turn it into an award winning screenplay, and retire to a villa (or yacht, she's not fussy) in the Mediterranean, to live out the rest of her days in sundrenched peace. If you lose her, look under a pile of books, scrap paper and empty tea cups, or check her bank statements for any recent, rash plane-ticket purchases. Don't try and call her, she's probably lost her phone.