Rebekah-Marie Bales Zask7-6-80 to 7-19-01 |
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LOS ANGELES POLICE DEPARTMENT San Pedro: On Thursday, July 19, 2001, at approximately 9:45 p.m., a fatal hit and run traffic collision occurred when a 1999 Infinity Q30 collided with a pedestrian. The pedestrian was 21 year old Rebekah-Marie Bales Zask of Rancho Palos Verdes, who was walking southbound crossing 25th Street west of Mermaid Drive in San Pedro. She was struck by a vehicle apparently driving on the wrong side of the roadway at what witnesses described as an unsafe speed for conditions. Officers responded immediately and learned that Ms. Zask, who was transported to San Pedro Penninsula Hospital, died of massive injuries sustained during the collision. The vehicle that struck the victim and it’s driver was gone on officers' arrival. Officers conducted a follow-up investigation from the scene, using clues left behind in debris that was believed to have fallen off from the suspect's vehicle. Subsequently, officers responded to the home of 52 year old Lynn Mary Woolever, also of Rancho Palos Verdes. Based on numerous interviews of witnesses and the suspect, Officers arrested Woolever for violation of Penal Code Section 187, murder. Family of Ms. Zask has been notified. This investigation is being handled by the Los Angeles Police Department's South Traffic Division Detectives Pedroza and Henderson.
Prose Poem Occasionally Rhyming or Massive Trauma to the Head That Bekah is killed I would rather not learn. Her father had a head start on his grief. He got to: Hear the policeman knocking on his door. See the policeman standing on his porch. Attach faces and bodies and uniforms of strangers to the genesis of his horror. Mine is born in the beep-beep-beep that means there is a message, though the outgoing advises callers as to the number of my cell. Knocked offline I dial once, oblivious still to the fact that fate and an evil alcoholic are propelling me inexorably into hell. It is his wife she has been crying she says we have sad news. A hush settles over my heart which has spontaneously turned combustible crystal bone china as prone to breakage as a guileless child’s. Again I dial. Her father. What is it! I am loud I know when I hear what he says I will need to wail…my 17-year-old son has just begun to drive…they live in the treacherous hills of Palos Verdes…my voice rises in rehearsal tell me Bekah…is dead…her father’s voice always tended to fade from the force of his emotion. He never did much care to put his feelings on display. Bekah…is dead
How? She was run over or that early on did he say she was hit by a car? Such a huge informative difference there but as of yet we were both unaware. Scarcely capable of belief or even knowing how to believe what cannot be. I go through motions of motherly grief. Gather from him numbers demand that he bring Andy to me…Andy must be here bring him to me. From somewhere in the rubble the shattered refuse of my heart I know that Andy must be with me. He agrees. In the silence where that call used to be, I try on my brand-new grief. Obviously this is way too big for me. Certainly it is much too pricey. My girl is not currency, she is the heart and the soul of me and you know, she is a lot of what is good about me. I must have my family next to me. Telephone call number three: Bekah’s big brother commences crying instantly and continues crying constantly. Later I learn he does not eat for the better part of a week. What did her father say to me? I do not believe. Let me see…call the police. My ex-husband tells me my daughter is dead can you verify that information for me? A man says yes unfortunately, Rebekah expired after being struck by a hit and run driver. Someone killed her with a car cold-bloodedly. He says officers are making an arrest as we speak. He is forced by his position to respond with insanity to my utterly logical pleas. When I tell him exactly what I think, he has no answer at all for me. You have my deepest sympathy, he says to me.
I am not crying why at this time. I am not crying at all. I am a tax-paying
citizen lodging a complaint. This
makes I am so sorry, he repeats. If I wail very very loudly will I begin to believe? I wake up Rory practicing. I say yes she is dead. I tell my little boy what I do not believe. I call Lizzy; she knows already. A lot of people know before me. Please put Paul on the phone with me…no one who knows her has seen my girl since before she was even supposedly deceased. Give me a reason to believe what I cannot believe…what I do believe I should not have to believe. It should not be this should not be Paul cannot talk, not really. He is fully owned by abject grief. He is who she was going to see. He chokes and tells me tearfully, "Bekah was the love of my life." He was inside the building too far to hear a thing…needs a smoke on the street there’s an exciting scene…choppers flying flashing lights flares lots of peeps. What’s up with this he thinks, then sees: Bekah’s car, parked across the street…? Suck in breath, her little blue bag on the ground? Panic rising even before he sees Bekah’s Skechers in the street. She loves those shoes. What does it mean? The firemen will know. He makes his way to the engine shielding bystanders from the sight of a large red pool. Paul’s anxiety level gains him early access to the truth. She’s been transported and pronounced they say eyes somber and shot with pity. He says, "So? Is she okay?" He says this so that later on we will have some comic relief. Hours in the "living" room, her brothers her father and I. Wailing tearless will I ever cry? Mind watching Bekah die countless times shuddering why creeping in. Trying to fathom whether I can bear to bury her without one more hug. Her father says this is what happened. They came to the door… At the hospital they said we are sorry to inform you that your daughter died. He broke down and cried her father said And the doctor went on to say you do not have to identify She sustained a massive trauma to the head. We have her ID you can be satisfied It is definitely your daughter and we are certain that she is dead. Then I start getting to know coming to learn About the crystallization and the facets and reality Of what was once useless worry and formless dread They are saying here’s your horror own this nightmare As I stare sleepless at an untouched bed Massive trauma to the head. Are her eyes intact? I wonder but cannot ask, if her eyes were shredded I cannot face that fact, though I say I must know everything. It only means I will strain their vocabulary and their tact, will test detectives and attorneys on telephone calls with questions not much less gory than the facts. The detective stalls. Searches words. doesn’t matter, not really. None of us ever heard worse. In a few days a few details dropped casually and then I’m crazy saying let me know first. Don’t make me look. She should look. I notice inside all this noise it is quieter than it has ever been for all of the past 21 years. Wait for the tears in a state distinguished from dead by not much more than a single beat or breath … wiped out in an instant Massive trauma to the head I learn that Bekah is dead. © Barbara Bales (mother) 2001-2003 all rights reserved
Will there be a sunrise on this mourning?
Today it rains stays dark the way I feel
Can I do Now when my heart embraces Always?
It feels like I could weep til sunrises cease.
Girl I am looking for the answer Will there be a sunrise on this mourning?
All contents this page © Barbara Bales and used with her permission Read more of Rebekah and her mother's poetry in tribute - web site here / poetry |
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I emote
appropriately and tearlessly. I say huh-uh that cannot be – I say why
didn’t you call me. He says I didn’t want to hear what I am hearing.
He says I knew what this news would do to you.
absolutely no sense to me. Sorry to say your sympathy does not do crap for
me. She is 21 years old she is perfectly healthy. She goes to school she
holds a job she is planning all sorts of things. If she is dead that shoots
her plans all straight to hell. I tell him well, that is really messed up.
I give him many opportunities to change his story.