The teeth folded flat both times. Through and gone. At 7:11 a.m., Diane's white Cadillac Escalade turned off County Road 118 onto my farm road. I could hear the engine from the porch, that big, aggressive V8 rumble that Escalades have. the sound of eight cylinders burning premium gasoline to move 6,000 pounds of leather and chrome down a dirt road that was built for tractors. She was doing 40 at least.
The dust trail behind her rose 30 feet in the still morning air, turning the sunrise into a hazy orange wall. She passed the first sign at 40 mph. She passed the second sign at 42 mph. She didn't touch the brake. She didn't glance at the warnings.
She drove through my property with the same arrogant indifference she'd shown for 14 months, as if the signs were decoration. The letters were jokes, and the law was something that happened to other people. At 7:12 a.m., all four tires of Diane Prescott's white Cadillac Escalade hit the deflation strip simultaneously. The sound was something I'll never forget. Not a pop, not like a blowout or a gunshot, more like four sharp hisses happening at once.
A compressed air release that cut through the morning quiet like a snake pit. Then came the mechanical sound. The heavy grinding lurch of a 6,000-lb vehicle suddenly running on four flat tires. The rubber flapping against the wheel wells. The rims biting into packed clay.
The Escalade swerved left, then right, then left again. Diane's brake lights flared. The vehicle skidded, sending a spray of red clay across the soybean rows. Like the dirt itself was bleeding. The engine revved.
She must have hit the gas in panic. And the Escalade lurched forward another 150 feet before grinding to a stop in the middle of my road. Canted slightly to the right, sitting on four shredded tires with steam rising from the undercarriage. I took a sip of coffee. From the porch, I could see the driver's door fly open.
Diane stepped out white tennis shoes, black leggings, an oversized sweatshirt, and stared at her tires. All four of them flat, shredded, done. She spun in a circle, looking at the road, the signs, the fields, like she couldn't process what had just happened. Then she looked toward my house, 600 feet away, and started screaming. I took another sip of coffee and called Jim Harrelson.
"Morning, Jim. She hit the strips." "How many tires?" "All four." "Beautiful.
Don't move. Don't talk to her. I'll call the sheriff." Diane called 911 at 7:14. I know because the dispatch log was entered into evidence later.
The call lasted 4 minutes and 11 seconds. She told the dispatcher that a farmer had placed illegal booby traps on a public road and that her vehicle had been sabotaged. She said she wanted the farmer arrested. She said she was trapped on the road and feared for her safety. She used the words dangerous and criminal and lawsuit in the same sentence, which takes a certain kind of talent.