…serve you. You’re a witness. I swear.” I didn’t text back. I called 911 from the station platform, holding the phone in both hands like it might bite me. The officer who arrived took one look at the notes, frowned, and made a call. Twenty minutes later, a nervous man in a cheap tie came running up the stairs, holding a badge from a legal process company.
His name was Martin. He was a process server, hired by a law firm to deliver subpoenas. “I’m so sorry,” he said, red-faced, while the officer checked his ID. “I write everything down. I photograph the door so I have proof I found the right address. ‘Completed’ means I served them.”
The officer read the case number on Martin’s paperwork and nodded. Then she turned to me. “Ma’am, do you remember seeing a car accident at your bus stop in June?”
I did. A silver car had run a red light and hit a cyclist at 7:43 in the morning, right in front of me. I’d stopped to help. I’d held the man’s hand until the ambulance came. I’d given my name to a police officer and never heard anything again.
The cyclist had survived. His family was suing the driver. The driver claimed the light was green. I was one of four witnesses. Priya, Natalie, and an old man were the others. Martin had been trying to serve me for two weeks, but I left too early and came home too late.
“Tuesday is the deposition,” Martin said. “I was going to try one more time Monday morning. The shoe thing,” he added sheepishly, “that’s just how I’d recognize you.”
I took the subpoena right there on the platform. On Tuesday, I testified. The jury believed us. A week later, the cyclist himself called me. He said he didn’t remember much about that morning, but he remembered a woman’s hand, and a voice telling him the ambulance was almost there.
I still tie my left shoe at the bus stop every morning. Old habit. But now I look up and wave at the corner where it happened, just in case.
