there was a rolling sensation as the van veered over the steep sides of the highway, tumbling several more times until impacting hard on its side.
All lights were out inside the van and neither officer in front was moving or speaking. The radio was still on, but no one was calling for help. They desperately needed help. She was lying on one of the crushed van sides, which was inclined about thirty degrees toward the front. They were stopped solid. After waiting several seconds, she cautiously moved one arm then the other, trying to determine if anything was broken. Then she moved both legs. Everything hurt, and she felt a warm drizzle of blood on her face, but she didn’t seem to have any major injuries. She moved her hands, as much as possible, looking for lacerations. She couldn’t find any. Then she slid up against the mesh front of the prisoner cage. “Hello, can either of you hear me?” There was no sound from the front and no movement.
It was hard to get any leverage with the shackles, but she pulled herself slowly uphill toward the doors in the back. At least one had flown open during the roll and they were partially askew when she reached them. They were heavy from this vantage and bent against their hinges, but she forced one open enough to crawl out. Once resting on top of the still-closed rear door, she was able to tumble off the back into the undergrowth shrubs and small trees compressed by the van. Her pain was excruciating, but she could still move. The roof of the van was facing downhill, as she worked along it toward the front.
When she reached the windshield opening, the glass was shattered and reflected headlights coming back off of the trees gave her enough visibility to see both officers suspended on their sides still strapped in their seatbelts. The male driver was uphill and the female was down. Both were unmoving and she feared the worst. She reached inside to check for pulses. The man felt warm and wet. He was bathed in blood, and she couldn’t find a pulse.
She squirmed around the bent dash panel to feel the female’s neck. She was also bathed in blood, but it could have been from the male above. She pressed harder into her neck to feel for a pulse and the woman moaned. She was alive!
Callie tried to talk to her, and she seemed to respond. Callie yelled, and the woman moved her head, still moaning. Callie yelled again. “Where is the first aid kit?” Nothing. She tried to reach in further to check for blood flow in the darkness, but the shackles made it impossible. “Ma’am, you’ve got to help me. Where’s the first aid kit.” Then the woman reacted with a lurch and tried to hit Callie, obviously recognizing her as the convict from the back. Callie fought her, grabbing her wrists, yelling that she wanted to help.
The woman weakened rapidly, and Callie released her wrists. “Ma’am, I’m trying to help. You’re hurt and we need to stop some of your bleeding.” The woman opened her eyes and seemed to comprehend.
Weakly, the officer said, “Under my seat. It’s under my seat.”
Callie tried again to reach inside, but couldn’t move freely. “Ma’am, please, let me help. You’ve got to unlock me. I can’t reach the kit.”
The officer then made a gesture toward her gun on her right hip. Callie leaned in to the full extent of her restrains and grabbed the officer’s right arm with both of her shackled hands. “Ma’am, you’ve got to stop. I only want to help. Stop with the gun. Please, please unchain me. You will die if you don’t let me help.” Callie was crying.
The officer changed her effort and pulled the keys from her duty belt with extreme effort. She said weakly, “Here.”
It took several minutes to find the right handcuff key, and then the key for the ankle shackles. The chains dropped and Callie reached in below the seat for the aid kit. The officer leaned her head back, ready to submit to whatever Callie would do next. She was too weak to do anything else. With her freed hands, Callie was able to find a large bleeding wound on the officer’s side. She reached into the kit and found a battle dressing, applying it to the wound with as much pressure as possible from her awkward angle. The officer screamed, but showed more life than before, crying “What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to save your life, if you’ll let me.”
With a small gasp the woman said, “What can I do?”
“Here. Hold this as tight as you can. How can I use the radio?”
“It should be on unless it was wrecked in the crash.” She grimaced, “Just find the microphone and press the button.” She gasped and rolled her head back in obvious pain.
Callie searched in the dark with her hands under the mangled dashboard. The spiral cord wrapped around her wrist and she pulled upward, lifting the microphone dangling a few inches below. She quickly flipped it upward, catching it in the same hand. She held it to her face and pressed the button on top, “Help. Help. Can anyone hear me?”
The response came, “Who is this, please identify.”
“Ah. My name is Callie Murray. I’m a prisoner in a police van from Louisiana, traveling on an Icy highway. We flipped over and off of the road. The police officers are badly hurt. Please send help.”
The female officer clenched her teeth. “You need to let go of the mike button to hear them.”
Callie looked at her then released the button after she comprehended what was said. A response came immediately. “Can you tell us where you are? We will send help. Over.”
She keyed the mike again, “I, I’m not sure. Wait while I ask.”
The officer heard the exchange. “Tell them we’re westbound on I-20 just inside the Alabama state line. The Interstate is closed, and we’re all alone.”
She replied, “Okay, I understand.” She keyed the mike, “Ah. The white police van is off the right side of Interstate 20, westbound just inside the Alabama state line. It’s very cold. Please send help. The road is terrible, it’s icy.”
“We’re contacting the Alabama State Highway Patrol. Hang in there. Help is on the way. Keep this channel open. Over.”
“Okay, I understand.” She left the microphone dangling outside the cab, and reached in again the help the officer.
The officer grimaced, “How is my partner?”
She didn’t say anything in response. She’d already answered the question and the officer seemed to understand.
The woman tried to move, but her weight strain on the seatbelt made movement impossible. She cried in pain. “Girl, can you help me get out of this seat?”
“I’ll try. What’s your name?”
“It’s officer Testa. Judy Testa.”
“Okay, Judy. I’m going to try to lift you enough to take the strain off the belt. Do you think you can press the belt release?”
“I, I think so.” The two women worked together to try to get Officer Testa free. She was slightly older than Callie, but much larger, about a hundred fifty pounds and five-seven. Callie’s sneakers couldn’t gain much traction on the icy ground. With one mighty heave, the belt released and Testa crashed down against the door, screaming again in pain.
Callie couldn’t hold her. “Oh, my God! Oh, my God! I’m so sorry. I lost my balance and couldn’t hold you.”
“It’s ... okay. It feels better just not having the belt cutting into me. I couldn’t breathe. Do you think you can help me get up and out of here?”
“I’ll try. I’ll really try.”
Testa put an arm up, and Callie put her head under, wrapping her arm around Testa. She stood with all her might and Testa was able to rise and lean over out the front of the cab. Through gasps, she said, “Try to pull me straight out. I need to get down flat on the ground.”
Without saying anything, Callie helped pull Testa from the cab, falling backward as Testa fell on top then rolled downward, lying beside Callie. Testa took several deep breaths, creating a frost cloud around her face. “How’s my bandage?”
Callie leaned over and pulled Testa’s hand back onto the battle dressing. “There. Hold it tight. I’m going to try to get your partner out of the cab too.”
; She stood again, realizing that her feet were so numb that she had no feeling below her knees. Both police officers had fleece-lined winter jackets and heavy boots, while Callie only had a single-layer jumpsuit and sneakers. She would freeze to death without help soon. Despite the cold, she worked on freeing the belt from the other officer. The pressure from the belt was crushing his chest and there was no way he could have breathed. If he wasn’t already dead, suspension from the shoulder belt would stop his breathing. “Judy. Do you have a knife?”
Even in this life-threatening situation, Testa hesitated before reaching in her duty belt for a folding knife. “Here.” She handed the knife to Callie, who began sawing on the driver’s belt material. His entire limp weight crashed down and rolled out on top of Testa, who screamed again in pain, as the body lay motionless on top of her.
Callie dropped the knife and rolled him off Testa then loosened his collar. She found a deep neck wound and went back to the aid kit for another battle dressing, which she tied over the wound.
Testa said, “I’m so cold. Are there any blankets?”
Callie searched as far as she could reach into the dark cab, but didn’t find anything that could cover them.
She pushed Testa firmly against the other officer on the cold ground, then lay beside the wounded officer, sharing her body heat.
Sometime later, a rescue team located the van in a ravine