“They’re not even going to do a sobriety test?”

It was the question I asked out loud. Maybe to the officer. Maybe just to myself.

An obviously intoxicated man had just slammed into my parked car.

It was just before midnight one Friday, and I wasn’t the only witness. Four of my neighbors and I had watched it unfold from our beloved stoop. We even caught the aftermath on video.

We saw him swerve. We heard the crunch of metal. Then, we couldn’t believe his reaction. It all happened in seconds — just 10 feet in front of us.

The driver stayed in his car for several minutes after the crash, repeatedly pressing the accelerator, as if he could just drive away.

But a broken axle made his attempted escape impossible. The fact that he kept trying became the second clear sign he wasn’t all there.

His front right tire was bent inward, leaving his blue Ford Focus immobile.

We had him dead to rights.

Or so we thought.

It took the police 15 minutes to arrive.

The driver remained in his car almost the entire time, pressing the accelerator again and again, as if sheer persistence might overcome the damage.

Then, to everyone’s surprise, he popped the trunk.

Those three words carry weight in certain communities. And in ours — a neighborhood that understands exactly what that act can mean — the scene landed differently.

We didn’t know what he was retrieving. But we knew enough to brace ourselves.

I told my lady friend, Triest, to hand me her phone and take cover. I took over recording, determined to capture every detail as video evidence.

He stepped out, moving slowly and unsteadily.

As I approached the vehicle with two neighbors, the driver claimed a woman passenger was injured.

But when we looked closer, she was just visibly impaired.

An empty plastic Chicago White Sox souvenir cup was all that emerged from the trunk, spilling harmlessly onto the street. The driver never even glanced down to pick it up.

That careless indifference — whether to the mess he’d made or the scene he’d caused — felt telling. Another potential sign of inebriation.

When two officers finally showed up, justice could have been served quickly. A few questions. A sobriety test. Maybe even handcuffs.

Instead, after a brief conversation, they let him walk. They collected information for their report, returned to their squad car and drove off.

No breathalyzer. No field test. No arrest. No real response at all.

One officer said the driver didn’t slur his words and was cooperative, so there was no probable cause.

Huh?

What about crashing into a parked car? What about video evidence — shown to the police — of the man attempting a hit-and-run?

Everyone watching, and frantically trying to assist, could sense the system failing before our eyes, a complete collapse of trust and accountability in real time.

While the perpetrator walked away without any punishment, I was left to pick up the pieces: filing and retrieving a police report, navigating an insurance claim, and now enduring a long wait to get my wrecked vehicle repaired.

I had been victimized, yet somehow, I ended up responsible for someone else’s irresponsibility.

The best news: no one was injured.

In the heat of the moment, that reality might have been lost on some of my neighbors. A few voiced strong objections — some directed at the police, others at the process, and all at the driver.

Everyone approached the situation from a different angle, and no one’s feelings were wrong or misplaced.

Amid the chaos, I seemed to be the calmest, maintaining perspective even as emotions ran high.

One neighbor boldly suggested that I slash my tires just to milk the process for more new parts.

Of course, my new Money Talks mindset now precludes me from getting worked up over material things.

Instead, I found my mind drifting. To questions about police training and accountability. And wondering whether race, class and socioeconomic status played a role — after all, the driver didn’t look like me, and the vehicle was a registered company car of the White Sox.

I thought about systems failing. About our society’s obsession with valuing property over people. I even considered the driver, his history and whether this ordeal would teach him anything. Or if getting off would only set him up to do it again.

My four neighbors and I stayed on our beloved stoop for more than an hour after the police left.

Despite seeing his vehicle’s damage, the man tried to drive away again.

He senselessly pushed on the bent tire. He wobbled around the car. He dropped his phone while dialing a tow truck.

Before long, the impaired woman left. Then, he called his elderly mother, who arrived seeking to help in the middle of the night.

It was a sad scene that fortunately didn’t end in tragedy.

Unfortunately, I’m left to pick up the pieces.