I was riding in a car which Mike Walls (who looked as if he were in his late teens) was recklessly driving around the hilltop area of Portsmouth. Another fellow (who also appeared to be in his late teens) was also riding in the car. Suddenly, three black girls, each probably 16-17 years old (one was wearing pink shorts) stepped into the street right in front of our car. Walls saw them and, on purpose, headed straight toward them. I was shocked as he smashed into one girl, causing her to fly into the air and bounce over the top of the car.

Walls raced down the street, turning west on Kinney's Lane. As we approached McKinley Avenue on our right, I thought of telling Walls to turn here. I recalled that about two blocks up the street was a wooded area. When I had been in high school, an old log hut used to stand out in the woods there. Perhaps the hut was still there, and we could hide in it. But I didn't say anything to Walls, and he continued down Kinney's Lane.

I listened for sirens, expecting the police would soon be after us; but I didn't hear anything. I thought if we would turn to the right on the next street (Oakland Avenue), we could drive over top of the reservoir at the top of the hill and have a better chance of escaping. When Walls drove right past Oakland Avenue, I hollered out to him that he was stupid. I was relieved when he turned right onto Sunrise Avenue, which would take us straight up to the reservoir.

As we proceeded up the hill, I reached out of the car, grabbed onto houses as we passed them, and helped our progress by pushing on the houses. At the same time I was thinking about what we should say if we were pulled over by the police: I decided it was important that we say nothing.

After about two blocks, we came to Notre Dame High School on our right. Some people were playing touch football in the grass in front of the school. We quickly decided this might be a good place to hide. Walls pulled up on the curve and drove through the grass in front of the school, all the way to the rear of the school. We pulled into the parking area, next to a large brown metal thing which might have been a truck, and then the three of us stepped out of our car.

Some women were standing nearby; one woman (probably in her 50s), resembled my 12th grade English teacher, Opal Bassler.

As Walls, the other fellow and I began walking, I asked Walls if he had known the black girl whom he had hit. He hesitated at first, then admitted he knew her; he said she often "slurred other schools." I was unsure what Walls meant by that, but it didn't sound good that he knew her. I now realized the other fellow and I had made a serious error by staying with Walls. We should have gotten out of the car earlier – then we could have denied we had even been with Walls when he hit the girl. But now people had seen us together; we would simply have to deny we had had anything to do with the accident.

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