I wasn’t going to be set up by this guy. No, I’d race home, lie low, and take my chances.
Which was a mistake, of course. The smart play (from the point of view of someone as lost as me at that time) would have been to ditch the drug discreetly and wait for the police to show up. I was neither smart nor honest in those days. I took a few back streets, pulled into our driveway, and walked through the house. I didn’t say a word to my parents, but I’ll admit to a pretty poor night of sleep that evening, with or without the assistance of medication.
The next day I went to work as usual. During the lunch break, I was out in my car and on my way home, about to execute a turn from the middle lane, when I looked in the rearview mirror and saw, to my alarm, that a police officer wanted me to pull over. Maybe my turn signal was out. Maybe it was something trivial. I could only hope it wasn’t about the previous night.
Immediately two policemen confronted me.
“Sir, was your car involved in a hit-and-run last night?”
So much for “trivial.”
“No, sir.”
They were watching my eyes, the way officers do. “We have a positive ID on a red Mustang, just like yours, sir. From last night.”
“Sir, it couldn’t have been me. I was at home all evening. I live with my parents—they’ll tell you I was there.”
The officer gave a noncommittal nod and handed me a card. “Robby, this investigator will come see you at five o’clock today. You need to be at home waiting for him to interview you.”
As I climbed back into my car, a little shaken, I realized I needed to bring my dad up to speed on this one. And I really didn’t look forward to that. Back at work, I sat down with Dad and told him what had happened—how I was certain it was a setup, and the guy didn’t seem hurt at all.
Dad sighed unhappily, thought it over, and said, “Son, you need to deny the whole thing. You don’t want something like this to escalate into a big mess. Late night, nobody around—it’s just going to be your word against his.”
If all of these things happened today, of course, I’d handle it with full integrity, and so would Dad. But at this moment in 2002, we were willing to cut corners—anything to avoid the judgment and exposure that I subconsciously feared would one day come.
I was on my way home at four, and I decided to stop by the Sno-Ball stand. This is a New Orleans specialty, shaved ice with cane syrup. I stood in line and placed my order. Six or seven people were standing behind me. The place was always packed. Suddenly a police car pulled up at the stand, then another one. Then it became clear something was going on with the police. A voice came from a megaphone: “Mr. Gallaty, please step away from the stand and walk toward this vehicle.”
Everyone turned to look at me.
Several policemen surrounded me and began firing questions at me. “Did you hit a pedestrian? Were you out that night in this car?” I vehemently insisted that I hadn’t done it. I’d been home. My parents were with me, and they’d swear to it.
“Son, we know the truth. You need to go ahead and confess, or you’re going to jail.”
“I didn’t do it!”
I was placed in handcuffs. The officer said, “Okay, then, here’s what we’re going to do. We need you to stand here by this car facing the street. Two sets of witnesses will drive by and take a look at you. If they positively ID you, you’re going to jail. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Apparently, there was someone who watched the accident happen. Or claimed to be watching.
The first car drove by slowly. It had tinted windows to protect the witness. A police radio nearby crackled, and I heard the words, “He says that’s him.”
The officer got in my face and said, “Son, one more to go. If he says yes, you’ll be under arrest.”
Just then yet another police car pulled up—and a friend stepped out. It was a buddy of mine who was an officer. He said, “I know Mr. Gallaty. Let me have him for a minute.”
The others stepped aside, and my friend said, “Dude—what are you doing? You’re sending yourself to jail. They totally know you did this. Just admit it and take a ticket. Then it’s a civil matter between you and the guy, see? So take the ticket, sleep in your own bed tonight, and let your insurance handle it, instead of turning it into a law enforcement matter. Because, let me tell you: it’s Friday afternoon. You check in tonight, you’ll be in custody all weekend.”
I realized how clueless I was about this stuff. I quickly told the other policeman I was ready to admit to the incident. I took my ticket, drove home, and explained the situation to my parents. And the “victim” went on to sue the insurance company. It turned out I was right about his motives. He’d tried the same thing twice already, stepping in front of cars and cashing in on settlements. This time, he received a small check. I could have fought it, but I had other battles in my life.
The real news was that I’d dodged a larger bullet, and I knew it. If I’d been caught with drugs in my car—on either day—there would have been no escaping a serious arrest. For a little while longer, I continued to beat the odds. And when I thought about it, I realized it was very odd indeed.
I was miserable. I was deceiving my parents again. I’d escaped the prison I’d sentenced myself to, only to lock
