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"We were all screaming at him to slow down!"

The weather was hot, and according to the calendar there were still six more weeks of summer. But Friday, August 9, marked the last true weekend of summer for Knox County Schools' students. Katie Padgett and Kelly Mink had been out shopping that afternoon, and they were going to spend Friday night with another friend, Tabetha Burrows. The three of them were planning to attend a birthday party on Saturday.

David Foust had just re-enrolled at Powell High School that day. He'd moved away a couple of years ago, and was glad to be returning to the community where he had grown up.

Kelly's mother had dropped the two girls off at Katie's house, and Katie's mother Barbara doesn't remember anything unusual about the evening. She didn't know that they had called their friend Ethan Miller, and that the three girls had piled into Ethan's charcoal gray Mazda along with David Foust and Russ Drain. They were all 16, all juniors at Powell, and they were doing something that kids in every town in America were doing that Friday night—cruising. Just driving around. It was an uneventful evening until they stopped at the Conoco Station. That, Katie remembers, is when David started begging Ethan to let him drive.

"David loved to drive and he was wanting to do his thing," she remembers. Ethan finally gave in. David took the wheel, and they headed out Conner Road, a narrow, hilly artery that tracks the course of I-75, takes a short detour westward on Copeland Road across the bridge over the interstate, and meanders northward. Then, the road becomes rural, its west side marked with second-growth trees, boulders, and wet-weather streams, the east side bounded by a riprap-covered berm that holds up the interstate.

"Everything was fine until we got on Conner Road," Katie says. "But then, he was driving real fast, and we were all screaming at him to slow down." Katie recalls that David was laughing at the panicked girls just before the car topped the hill and started to skid.

"The last thing I remember was Tabetha saying she'd already had a wreck. I sat up, saw the tree up ahead, and ducked back down again. Then we hit it."

Katie never lost consciousness, and was able to fish the cell phone her sister had lent her out of her purse and call her mother. Then she called 911.

After that, she tried to talk to her friends.

"Kelly just moaned," Katie says. "Russ was conscious, and kept thinking somebody was on his back. David didn't say anything. A guy came up and tried to open my door, which was on the right. More people came up, and they were asking me stupid questions, like what color was the car." (Barbara says it was actually the E-911 dispatcher, who was also having trouble understanding what Katie was saying.)

She called Tabetha's parents, and then called another friend and asked them to call the other kids' families. Tabetha's parents arrived on the scene in time to ride in the ambulance with her.

And David Foust never said a word. The police report would disclose that he did not have a driver's license.

The terrifying call from Katie was hard for Barbara and David Padgett to understand for more than one reason. These are good kids, and Barbara had no reason to worry the last time she had seen her daughter that evening. She thought Kelly was driving, and that the girls would be at Tabetha's house, safe and sound.

"I had no idea there were all those kids in the car. I had assumed she was with Kelly."

After the phone call, the Padgetts went to look for Katie, and they drove up Copeland Road looking for the place where Conner jumps the interstate. They finally found it, and could see the flashing lights as they drove down the long hill, and finally, they could see their daughter standing there, weeping.

"She was just so afraid for her friends," Barbara Padgett says.

Katie broke four bones in one foot, sprained her right ankle and had lacerations and stitches. She wore casts on both feet for a month, and her left foot is still in a brace.

Her mother says the wreck marked "a wake-up call for Katie," she says. "She has not been riding with any of her friends, except for one boy who brings her home from school. The other day we picked up two of her girlfriends, and when they got in the car, she turned around and said 'I don't see any seatbelts.' She's being cautious about who everybody's riding with."

As soon as Katie was well enough, her mom took her back to the place where the wreck happened. There's a spot where the shoulder is wide enough to park just a short walk away from the scrawny tulip tree that has become a memorial shrine to David Foust, who was killed instantly when the car slammed into it. There are flowers, real and artificial, ribbons, teddy bears, notes, and poems duct-taped to the tree.

"She just sat down there on the side of the road for an hour to two. It was really something," Before she left, Katie added her name to those who had signed the memorial.

Is she angry at the boy who was at the wheel?

"No, not at all. I bear no hard feelings for anyone," she says.

—Betty Bean

Road deaths cause soul-searching in Powell

by Betty Bean

On May 18, 1916, on the way home from LaFollette, Hugh James Agee was instantly killed by a smart rap of steering wheel against chin when his tin lizzy ran off the road about 12 miles from Knoxville where Clinton Pike (now Clinton Highway) crosses Beaver Creek. The surrounding community, Powell's Station, was named for the railroad depot on nearby Emory Road. Automobile travel was still a relatively novel concept, so the wreck was a shocking thing, particularly for Agee's young son James, who would one day turn the awful phone call-in-the-night memory into the Pulitzer Prize-winning novel A Death in the Family.

On August 9, 2002, a couple of miles away from the Beaver Creek bridge, Barbara Padgett and her husband David were getting ready for bed when their phone rang around 11 p.m.

It was their 16-year-old daughter, Katie, calling on her sister's cellular phone, which she had borrowed for the evening. Her voice was so shrill that at first Barbara couldn't make out what she was saying. And even when Barbara finally understood her daughter's alarming words, she didn't at first grasp the meaning.

"Mom, pray for us! Pray for us!" Katie wailed.

"Pray for what, Katie?"

"Mom, we've been in a wreck. Pray for us all!"

The school parking lot

Once-rural Powell's Station has become Powell, a burgeoning commuterville where affluent subdivisions are strung out porch to patio for miles along the north side of the old Emory Road. Powell High School, which has 1,142 students, is the center of community life and is flanked by an expanse of asphalt sufficient to accommodate the vehicles driven by the holders of 360 student parking permits—a notable number, since only slightly more than half of the student body is old enough to hold driver's licenses. The acre of gleaming, late model cars parked there from 8 to 3 is a tribute to suburban culture. But lately, something has been happening in Powell that is causing a re-evaluation of the notion of kids and cars. Starting in 1998, 15 area young people under the age of 20 (16, if the young man who was hit last month while trying to cross I-75 on foot is counted), have been killed in automobile crashes. Many more have been maimed, crippled, or seriously injured. Today, roadside markers are springing up along the winding, shoulderless, semi-rural secondary roads of Powell, bearing witness to the suffering of dozens of families of the victims.

The first thing that officials at Powell High School would like to have understood is that not all of the deceased were students at PHS. Some were former students, others never were PHS students at all. The situation is bad enough without the exaggerations, says Larry Stephens, who teaches driver's education and coaches at Powell and is a member of Knox County Commission.

"We've had nine," says Stephens, ticking them off by name.

After the last accident (the August 9 crash, which killed one student and injured five others, including Katie Padgett), PHS principal Charles Mashburn was persuaded to allow a wrecked car to be placed on school property as a kind of shock therapy. Stephens and head football coach Clark Duncan found the car, which was not one that had been involved with any of the PHS students.

"There are some groups out here that want to put 'the' car in the school parking lot. I said no, because some of those parents and family members have to drive by here every day. We want to be proactive, but we also want to be sensitive to the people that are hurting."

Mashburn sums up the effect on his students of all these wrecks with a single word: "Bewilderment."

"We are searching for the reasons why this happens in one place, so close together. And we know what the answer is if you take no action."

He says he has discussed possible solutions with his students, and he says that, surprisingly, a number of them favor raising the driver's license age from 16 to 18.

"Cars are as numerous here as bicycles were when I was in school. And the car of choice is a five-liter Mustang with chrome wheels. That's built for speed, and that's the car. When a guy has one of those, he thinks he has to drive fast, or he's a wuss. It's a rite of passage. So you have teenagers who look at cars like toys and parents who provide that."

Mashburn, as well as everyone else who has studied the issue, says a youthful driver's chances of being involved in a serious car crash rise exponentially when the number of passengers is increased.

"You're not as likely to be distracted if nobody is in the car with you."

Powell High has formed a core team that swings into action when the school gets word of another traffic fatality involving a student. Guidance counselor Beau Stanley is the leader, and he says, with a sad shrug, "We're pros at this now."

Mashburn and Stanley acknowledge that there is dissension in the community on how to respond to the tragedies.

"There are parents with conflicting views," says Mashburn, "And we are sometimes caught in the middle. But I don't see that as always negative. It would be worse if they didn't need us at all."

Stanley says finding the balance between respect for those who are grieving and the need to get life back to normal is one of the toughest problems he must deal with as core team leader.

"We want to be personal with the kids, but at the same time, it's important not to make tragedy the focus of the whole week. You have to continue to live."

The 'PTL' Club

A few nights later, Mashburn and other school officials are in the audience at First Baptist Church for a meeting of SAVE (Safety Awareness Vehicle Education) of Powell. This group has been organized by Scott Baird, whose son Anthony was killed along with two other young men on May 30 of this year, and Cindy Garrison, who lost her son, Zach Carrero, in 1999.

Baird is a forceful man whose passion is fueled by a grief that is still raw. His determination to wring some good from his son's death has sparked some controversy in Powell. For example, the mother of one of the other boys killed with Anthony— a woman Metro Pulse was unable to contact—opposes Baird's hard-core activism and his willingness to take dramatic steps such as displaying the car in which the boys died. Harsh words have been exchanged, and lawyers have lined up on both sides.

Baird speaks first, and recounts the experience of sitting in the hospital, watching helplessly as his son struggled against the odds to live.

"I knew there was zero chance, but that didn't stop me. I prayed like I'd never prayed before...I had to sit there and watch my son try to breathe. This went on and on and on. Then I started to pray to God to take him. Finally, he stopped."

Garrison's 15-year-old son Zach had gotten a ride to school with a friend whose car went into a skid when he swerved to avoid some chairs that were obstructing the roadway. Zach, who was not wearing a seatbelt, was thrown from the car and killed.

A couple in the audience, Robert and Melissa Simpson, witnessed the wreck, and were there to talk about it.

"There's not a day that goes by that we don't think about it," said Simpson, who attempted to administer CPR to Zach Carrero. "Those boys weren't doing anything wrong. The road was booby-trapped."

Garrison, who has been dealing with her tragedy for almost three years, is more composed than Baird when discussing her loss, but is no less determined to try to make a difference.

"There's been a lot of good come out of my son's death. More people are wearing seat belts. But we should not have to lose any more kids in order for people to wake up. And we're not about placing blame. My son was on his way to school—it can be that innocent."

Although the organization is still in its infancy, Baird and Garrison say SAVE will focus on parental awareness and education. Baird attended a class called "Parent to Parent," sponsored by the Metropolitan Drug Commission, and he plans to bring a tape that he saw there to the Powell community.

"Parent awareness starts at home, like planting a seed," he says. "We're not looking to place blame."

Baird presents some alarming statistics, including one that has direct bearing on the situation in Powell.

"Out of all 50 states, guess where Tennessee is ranked in teens 16-19 being killed in traffic wrecks? How about number 10? And on the state level, guess where Knox County ranks? How about number two?"

He challenges his audience for answers, and PHS student Terra Michael suggests that driver's license examinations need to be tougher. Some of her friends who are there disagree. Cindy Garrison favors raising the driving age to 18. A teenaged girl in the back row says parents who present their children with car keys on their 16th birthday without so much as requiring them to pay for insurance need to stop. A father observes that many kids seem to be members of "the PTL Club," and asks if the group knows that means. When no one does, he supplies the definition:

"The 'Push it To the Limit' Club."

There is another concern: Even though most of these car crashes involve male drivers, the teen portion of the audience is mostly girls. Except for a First Baptist youth group identifiable by their church t-shirts, not many boys have shown up.

Keith Downen, who has crusaded for a county curfew and tougher enforcement of beer laws since he lost his Bearden High School student son Adam several years ago, is in the audience. He suggests that bad roads, lack of a county curfew, and alcohol sales to kids are major factors. Baird disagrees with the notion of blaming the government, and sticks to his theme of parental responsibility.

"You can't dress like them and you can't be their buddy," he says. "You need to be the parent. I failed as a parent by not noticing the things I should have seen."

The group is investigating getting technological help, like a black box for young drivers that will track speed and steering data and store it on a chip that is downloadable into a home computer; speed governors that limit a vehicle's speed to 50 miles an hour; or programs that give out bumper stickers identifying teens' cars and supply an 800 number to report violators. SAVE is also planning to sponsor a Jan. 16 assembly at PHS.

PHS juniors Kelly Mink and Katie Padgett are in the audience, and Kelly's mother, Patti Mink, says she is lucky that her daughter is still alive. The two girls were both passengers on August 9, when their classmate David Foust was killed. Kelly, who is still wearing a cumbersome brace, suffered two broken legs, broken ribs, and collapsed lungs.

"They called her a miracle at the hospital."

Kelly doesn't remember anything that happened that night.

Katie does.

"I've never really took any of this to heart, but now, after it happened to one of our friends, I do."

When she tries to speak to the group, she chokes up.

"I don't know exactly what to do, but we've got to do more than just talk about it."

Charles Mashburn is the last speaker to take the floor. He cautions that "Perfect parents have kids that get killed... get drunk... get on drugs. But you have to try because if you don't, your chances are 100 percent that these things will happen. There's not one answer, because there's not one kind of kid. And if you sit on [your grief], it'll go nowhere. For God's sake, act."

Mashburn says parents need to use common sense.

"Driver's education starts sooner than you know. You are the most important teacher your child will ever have on this earth. Your kids are watching you, and you should be watching them. If you have a son or daughter with a bad temper, think twice about letting them drive."

Searching for answers

Sergeant Rick Trott and officer Paul Story are in the Traffic Division of the Knox County Sheriff's Office, and represent half of the four-person Accident Reconstruction Unit.

"We have to spend a lot of time disproving things, no matter how bad, no matter how much it hurts," says Trott. These men get more calls in the night than anyone, and when the call comes, they know it's because someone is dead.

"The adrenaline kicks in immediately, and everything you can think of runs through your mind," says Story. "You wonder how did somebody die this time? And it's just tragic. I've lost track of how many [fatalities involving teenagers] I've worked. Sometimes I want to discuss it with my wife, and she doesn't want to talk about it. At other times, she's ready to discuss it to help alleviate what's on my mind."

Is the public perception that Powell has suffered an inordinate number of traffic fatalities involving young people an accurate one?

"Absolutely," says Trott, listing the recurring themes in the majority of the Powell fatalities: "Inexperience, speed, late-night driving, multiple passengers. The majority of these cases have involved a single vehicle, and the alcohol-impaired driver would constitute a low percentage of these cases."

Trott and Story are deliberate, cautious officers with a sharp eye for detail. They are reluctant to comment on individual cases, especially those that are still unresolved. One case Trott will talk about happened in 1999 and involved a driver named Shannon Ratliff, a 21-year-old who was ultimately convicted of vehicular homicide after his 1996 red Mustang slammed broadside into a car-load of young women who were students at Crown College in Powell.

"These girls had gone down the street to a birthday party, where they had cake, ice cream and exchanged gifts," Trott says. "There was no alcohol at that party, and when it was time to go back to the dorm before curfew, they pulled out of the driveway onto East Beaver Creek to go four-tenths of a mile back to the school. He hit them broadside. The driver was killed and one passenger was fatally injured. They never had a prayer."

Life Interrupted

The final resting place of many of the vehicles involved is up near the Anderson County line at Clinton Highway Wrecker Service, where the front lot is full of owner Rick Carnes's trademark purple diesel tow trucks. Out back, he has a lot-full of crumpled, blood-stained relics that have been totaled out by insurance companies.

And he has seen so much that he has run out of patience. The black 1990 Honda Prelude Anthony Baird was riding in when he was fatally injured is on one side of the lot; a Snoop Doggy Dogg tape on the back seat floor conveys a sense of life interrupted.

"You can look out over this field of cars, and see them torn up everywhere," Carnes says. "Parents have turned kids loose to do as they please, and there are some people who want to make somebody else responsible for their kids. Somebody needs to teach these kids that just because a sign says 50 MPH doesn't mean it's safe."

He walks over to a brown 1969 Buick Special whose passenger side has been laid open. It is a jagged, U-shaped mess.

"This is a heavy old car," he says, "There were some girls from Crown College riding in it. They'd just been to a little birthday party, and were pulling back onto the road. This red Mustang"—he gestures to a sporty model to the right—"hit them. He didn't have any lights on. He was a DUI offender and didn't even have the right to be out there, because he was driving on a restricted license that only allowed him to drive to and from work. He's in prison now."

He repeats the same words Trott used to about the victims in the same case:

"They didn't have a prayer."
 

October 10, 2002 * Vol. 12, No. 41
© 2002 Metro Pulse