Who are you, where are you and what did you see? Just speak up
By MARY JO MELONE
Published April 14, 2004
You may be black or white, Anglo or Latino, male or female, young or old, gay or straight, disabled or able-bodied. Whatever, whoever, you know who you are.
You drove maybe a white van or a dark Honda on that Wednesday night, March 31. Maybe you hit Lisa Wilkins' four children. Or maybe you were right behind Jennifer Porter's Toyota Echo, later found damaged, and saw what happened.
Not even the police are sure what you did or saw. Only you can be sure.
Don't tell me that the neighborhood was dark and dangerous, and that made you afraid to stop. Compared to some other more dangerous places in Tampa, this one might as well have been Carrollwood.
Don't tell me you figured somebody else would pull over and call the police, relieving you of the duty. Assuming that you didn't hit 13-year-old Bryant Wilkins and his three siblings, you had to drive around their bodies, showing them no more regard than cones at a construction site. That would have put you among the first witnesses on the scene. It was your responsibility, if you understand the meaning of the word. Your eyewitness account would be invaluable.
So what is it? What are you hiding?
That you are as culpable as anyone? Were you driving without a license? Were you drunk? Are you an illegal immigrant, afraid of being sent back home? Or were you just unwilling to be inconvenienced?
My call to come forward is not limited to you, because you are not the only drivers sought by the Hillsborough Sheriff's Office.
Other drivers were on 22nd Street that evening. The road bustles with traffic. Others came upon the accident, after the initial collision of metal and flesh. Only some stopped and talked with investigators. Deputies are hoping, perhaps against hope, to hear from others, so investigators can get as complete a picture as possible of what happened.
This case, at least with regard to witnesses, is a window on a particular form of road rage, in which you don't have to scream, flip a finger or tailgate to get your point across. You might call it a quiet rage.
You drive with the windows up, the air conditioning humming, a favorite song thumping on the stereo. You are perfectly isolated within the confines of your car, without connection to anybody else. The other motorists, and pedestrians, are in your way.
They are the problem, not you. You have your rights. You're sure of that. When a moment occurs like that moment two weeks ago on 22nd Street, you keep going without a twinge of conscience, or at least enough conscience to stop.
I have some experience with this. Nearly seven years ago, my brother was changing a flat tire on a Maryland stretch of I-95 when he was struck and killed by an 18-wheeler. The driver never so much as slowed down. He remains unknown to this day.
I imagine that every morning he awakens knowing that he got away with murder. How does he reconcile himself to his act? A more frightening question: What if he feels no remorse?
So come now, you who drove that road. What went through your mind when you read about last weekend's funerals for Bryant and his 3-year-old brother, Durontae Caldwell, or saw the stories on TV? Did you just turn the page or click the remote? Did you feel nothing for their mother, or for the loss of lives so young?
This is not, rest assured, a story just about you. This is also, and more important, a story about community. While you hide behind your silence, others have come forward, friends and strangers both, to tell what they saw, to give money for the funerals, to demand justice. They have made the neighborhood around 22nd Street and 142nd Avenue far more than an intersection on a map.
Whoever you are, you may have robbed them of two children, but you have not destroyed the community. Your cowardice has made it stronger.
