Colorado DUI Awareness & Impaired Driving Prevention

Full transcript of “Lives Changed Forever: Real Stories of Impaired Driving,” filmed at a Move With MADD event and other locations across Colorado. Speakers are identified where known; the wording has been lightly cleaned for readability.

Kevin Hughes, American Driving Academy: Hi, it’s Kevin. Today we’re in Colorado Springs to do Move With MADD. MADD is a nonprofit organization that stands for Mothers Against Drunk Driving. What they do is try to spread awareness about this issue — not just drunk driving, but driving under the influence of other substances too, such as marijuana. Today this walk is to remember some of the victims across Colorado who have been killed in drunk-driving crashes. Some of their families are here to walk with us and share their story.

Barbara, founder of MADD Colorado: I’m Barbara.

Kevin Hughes: Barbara, Karen told me that you started MADD Colorado.

Barbara: I did — with the help of Jesus. This lady made these signs for us back in 2005. As you’ll notice, there are all ages here. We try to do whatever we can for the families, because whether it’s a baby, a child, a husband, or a wife, we always want to be there for them. That’s what we’re here for. We are 43 years strong, but we still have a lot to do, because too many people still don’t think about it. This year, the State Patrol told me that from January through April we already had about 130 crashes with multiple deaths. We’re trying to get people to stop drinking and driving — we have far too many crashes.

I found out about all of this from my younger brother. When our dad passed away, I thought he had just passed away — my brother was the only one who knew our dad had been killed by a drunk driver in 1977. The kid who killed my dad was 16 and ran a red light. My mom was killed on February 11th, 1982. This is what we do.

We have these signs made so that when officers pick someone up for DUI — that’s my mom right there — they can show them, if they’ve been drinking, that these are real people. The man who killed my mom always worked early, from 5 to about 3, then went right to the bar and drank and drank and drank. I sat in the courtroom, and he got a one-year work release for killing my mom. I’m a strong Christian. I said, “God, there has got to be something else we can do.” He said, “If you will have a good attitude and trust me, what the devil meant for evil, we will turn for good.” So our whole goal for Colorado MADD is a passion for the victims, because they need people who can help them walk through it — no matter their age. Right now we have far too many young kids getting in cars and thinking their friends are fine when their friends have been drinking. If somebody has been drinking, you don’t get in the car. Call your mom, call your dad, call your grandma, call somebody — but don’t get in the car.

Jocelyn’s mother: She was 10 years old when it happened, on September 9th, 2022 — next month is actually her third year. We were having family fun night. We lived in Widefield, so we went to the Red Robin in Broadmoor, and it was only 7 o’clock — not after midnight or anything, just 7 o’clock. We were about 5 minutes from home, at the last light before our house, stopped to turn left, when the drunk driver — going over 80 miles per hour, according to the police report — hit us on the passenger side. Our car spun around and was struck on both sides, but my daughter Jocelyn took the most impact. As soon as it happened, I got out and saw my daughter lying there in her booster seat, just like any child would be. My husband got out too. The driver who hit us had three of his own kids in his car — he was drinking and driving with his children in the car.

All of his kids were fine, including him. They took Jocelyn and my husband away in ambulances, and that’s where they told us her brain had swelled and she was in a coma. They said they could keep her in the coma and see what happened. My husband had both ribs broken, fractured lungs, and neck injuries; he was at Memorial Central, so we were separated. I was with Jocelyn for 9 days, until the doctors told us, “This is it — you have to make the call.” We later found out the driver had run from the scene. He wasn’t arrested until a year later — a year after my daughter passed. Now he’s up for parole in 2027, which tells you there are no strict laws in Colorado. It’s just a slap on the wrist. He had his kids and nothing was done about that; I had my kid, and she was taken from me.

If you’re thinking about drinking, do what’s best. Ask for a ride home. Take a friend with you and have them be the designated driver. It’s all fun and games until somebody’s life is taken — and that is not worth it. My daughter’s life ended when she was 10, and that is not fair at all. We were fortunate that I have my second daughter now; we found out about her around the time of Jocelyn’s first birthday after she passed. It was like Jocelyn’s way of telling us, “Here you go, Mom — you can’t be alone.” Jocelyn was such a nice, caring person. She loved to play jokes on you — pranks, pranks, pranks. She loved K-pop and arts and crafts; I’d bring her a box of tissues and she’d turn it into cute stationery to hold all her notes. She was so caring. You could be mad and she would just say, “Mom, I love you,” and that would make your day.

Trooper Pratt, Colorado State Patrol: Hello, I’m Trooper Pratt with the Colorado State Patrol. I’m here to talk to you about DUIs. Last year we worked over 220 fatal DUI-related crashes — and every one of them could have been prevented. Please be responsible. If you drink, do not drive. If you are drinking, get an Uber or have a sober person take you home. Thank you.

Narrator: We’re finishing up our walk today, and we got to hear stories from people who lost loved ones to drinking and driving. They aren’t the only stories that need to be shared — every one of these memorials represents someone killed or injured in a drunk-driving crash. We’re going to listen to one more story now.

Dominic’s mother: My son Dominic — we had been married 12 years and had a good life. We both felt fulfilled with what we were accomplishing, and then we were suddenly surprised and blessed with, “Hey, you’re going to have a little boy.” It turned our whole universe around. I had my own marketing firm and my husband was a police officer, and we had no idea this is where life would take us. We remodeled our house, changed our jobs, changed everything. The moment I held him in my arms for the first time — any mom knows that changes you. He was a spunky kid who never slept; I think he was 2 before he slept through the night. But he always knew what he wanted and was driven to get it. He was a class clown who loved to make people laugh. And on the soccer field — holy cow. He was a midfielder, and anyone who knows soccer knows the midfield connects the defense and the offense. He was the one making the decisions: “I’ve got this ball — now what am I going to do with it?”

We got through COVID — a sad, trying time for everybody — and were coming out the other side. He had to get his wisdom teeth out, he had soccer tryouts, and we were going on a trip. It was a Thursday night, and he asked, “Mom, can I go out tonight?” We don’t usually go out on Thursday nights, but I looked at the calendar and saw we only had 5 nights of summer left, so I said, “You know what — go out.” He left about 3:20. I walked him out to the car. He told me he loved me and got in. Of course I said, “Be careful, make good choices.” I asked who was driving — all the things we always did. He said, “I love you, Mom,” and backed out. I walked up the driveway. It wasn’t even late enough for the Ring cam or for Life360 to be tracking him. He got in a car at 7:09 with somebody he didn’t know very well, and by 7:13 the kid driving ran a red light and was hit by a semi-truck. He was in that car for 4 minutes. That decision to get in that car — versus any other car, and that spot versus any other spot — was life-changing for all of us. He was 17 years old, and he should have had so much more life ahead of him.

From the time Dominic could understand a conversation, safety was a huge part of his life. His father was a school resource officer and on the SWAT team, so we were always sharing messages about staying safe and making good choices. There could not have been a child who knew more about his own safety than Dominic. Like a lot of kids, he’d roll his eyes every time his parents said, “Make wise choices — who’s driving tonight?” Kids get annoyed that their parents say it, but we have to keep saying it. And everything Dominic knew did not save him from the consequences of getting in the car with the wrong kid. If one of your friends has been drinking anything — or if you have — there is no okay to drive. You cannot drive. One drink is enough to get you a DUI, or something far worse.

This is where Dominic grew up; we’ve lived here since the day he was born. I remember carrying him up these steps and showing him his bedroom. Every year we took pictures right here of his first day of school. After Dominic was killed, we decided to make this a place where he can be honored and celebrated — Dominic’s Memorial Garden. We put in the sidewalk on purpose, so that when his friends want to come see the bench we created in his honor, they don’t have to ring our bell. The community sponsored it — people in Broomfield, Westminster, and Arvada came together for the memorial. When Dominic would leave to go out with friends, I would often find on Life360 that they’d stop right here, gather, and figure out their plans for the night. This bench sits right across from where Dominic parked his car the last time he was in it. He parked it right there, got in another car — I’m not sure whose, and I don’t know that I’ll ever know — and went to hang out with friends.

When I got the call at 9 o’clock that evening, we got in our car and drove the however-many miles to get here, and we got diverted. Driving down 287, we suddenly saw all the lights and sirens, but there was no crash in the intersection. My husband, being a police officer, knew what it meant: if they were diverting traffic a mile ahead, we knew what that was about. We had to take a separate route to the hospital, which brought us down this street — and we saw his car sitting there. We thought, “He’s got to be okay, there’s his car.” We drove right past it on the way to the hospital, where we spent our last 5 hours with Dominic.

I remember coming up to the security guard and saying, “We’re here to see our son — where do we go?” He asked who we were. I said, “We’re the DePalma family.” He said, “Oh — I think he’s still alive.” A nurse said he was on five different medications to support his blood pressure, so for several hours we had hope. It wasn’t until an awkward chaplain walked into the room that we realized we were not there for hoping. At a certain point in the night, we realized we were hoping for a peaceful transition for him instead. This is where all his friends gathered next to his car and built a candlelight memorial — rosaries, candles, flowers, signs, balloons. It makes me so sad. Seventeen-year-olds should be having the time of their lives — going to homecoming and prom, worrying about what outfit to wear, what TikTok to make. They shouldn’t be wondering whether lighting a candle will take a little of the burden off their hearts.

The driver was absolutely fine — I don’t think he had a scratch. The front passenger was mostly okay too. But both of them will carry lifelong mental injuries from the memory of that night. All three in the back were badly hurt. Two survived; one had a 1% chance of survival and somehow pulled through, but he has lifelong physical injuries he struggles with every day. The other ended up with his face shattered and his mouth wired shut; while that’s healing, he’ll carry both physical and emotional injuries for the rest of his life.

Dominic wasn’t even on his way home yet — he was still out early in the night. The sun was still up; it was the golden hour. It’s always important to get home safely, but it’s important to get everywhere safely. At the end of the night, everyone asks, “Do you have a ride? A designated driver?” But if you don’t make it to that point in the night, it doesn’t matter. So every time you get in a car, make sure you are the sober driver, or that the driver is sober — and if that’s not possible, call somebody, or get an Uber, a Lyft, a rideshare. It doesn’t have to be midnight before you start thinking about being safe. I think it’s hard for a teenage mind to truly comprehend the consequences: you drink, you drive, you crash, you take someone’s life. I don’t know that you ever get over it. I actually have a lot of empathy for the driver, because he was 17 and his brain wasn’t developed, and a lot was working against him. But that doesn’t change the fact that now he knows he killed somebody — and not a stranger in another vehicle. He killed someone he knew. I think that’s about as bad as a DUI gets, and he will carry it forever.

Narrator: Next we’ll meet Ken, a man who was drinking and driving one day and lost his niece in a crash.

Ken Hayes: My name is Ken Hayes. I was convicted of DUI vehicular homicide.

Interviewer: Ken, tell me a little about the relationship you had with your niece.

Ken Hayes: Oh man, it was wonderful. I’d like to think I was her favorite uncle. We did everything together — we went skiing, we played games. She was in middle school, about to go to high school. She played a lot of sports, she was a musician who could play several instruments, and we were very close. We talked all the time.

Interviewer: What was life like for you before the crash?

Ken Hayes: Life was carefree. I treated this world like an ashtray — I did what I wanted, how I wanted, and never felt I’d face any of the consequences you hear about. I never thought I’d be a victim, and I certainly never thought I would hurt somebody so innocent. Ashley’s parents were out of town, and at the time I had a fancy car. The night of the crash, she kept asking to drive it. Knowing I was drunk, I kept telling her no. But several drinks into the night, I gave in and told her she could drive. Ashley, her friend, her friend’s mother, and I got in the car and headed out east, where there wasn’t much traffic. I figured she could drive it — and again, I was drunk, so I wasn’t making wise decisions. I don’t recall a lot about that night, but on the way back in — I’m not sure if I was speeding or swerving; the only thing I’m sure of is that I was drunk — the car went off the road. It started to roll, and Ashley was ejected. I was ejected too. The other two passengers stayed in their seat belts.

That night I remember crawling through tall yellow grass, screaming, “Ashley! Ashley! Where are you? Please answer me!” I came to with doctors and nurses standing over me, telling me everything that was wrong — a head injury, my shoulders, internal injuries. The doctor’s voice started to fade, because all I could think about was Ashley. When he left, I tried to get up, and the nurse told me, “You need to stay down, you’re in too bad a shape.” I told her, “I have to go talk to Ashley. I have to tell her how much I love her, make sure she’s okay, and apologize for putting her through a night like that.” The nurse said, “She’s at another hospital,” and I thought, “Thank God.” In and out of consciousness, I came to with my sister Vicki — Ashley’s aunt — in the room, my brother Steve, and Ashley’s mother, Joyce. As I came around, Joyce got up, walked over, kissed my cheek, and whispered in my ear, “Ashley’s gone.” I started yelling for my sister: “No, Vicki, please wake me up from this nightmare. This isn’t supposed to happen to somebody like me — anybody else in the world, but not me. This isn’t my reality.” And here I am today, still in that same nightmare. All over a drink — something that could have been prevented if I’d taken a little more responsibility and not chosen to drive.

John and Joyce are true angels. John is my brother, and Joyce was his wife. If it weren’t for them, their caring, and their belief in God, I probably wouldn’t be here. Out of what I can only imagine was unbearable anger toward me, they found the strength to help me want to survive this and continue my life, and they brought me back from the brink of self-destruction. When I was released from the hospital, I went to John and Joyce’s house. John is Ashley’s father. Joyce greeted me at the door, kissed my cheek, and told me to have a seat. I could hear John in another room saying, “Let me just pull it together before I go out there.” Looking back, I realize he was gathering the strength to talk to the man who killed his daughter. As I sat there, all I could think was that he was going to come out and beat me, choke me, shoot me, stab me — and I was okay with any of it. Whatever it took for him to feel better. He came out, looked me in the eyes, and said, “Ken, I know you loved Ashley, and she loved you.” Then he turned and started to walk away. I stood up: “John, can I be a pallbearer at her service?” And I remember him running through his own house — “Joyce, Joyce, he wants to be a pallbearer.”

There I was, in this huge church as an honorary pallbearer, and the church was filled — family members, her cousins, her classmates, her teachers, strangers. I watched every single one of them walk past Ashley. Some time after that, John called me and said, “Ken, there’s a warrant out for your arrest.” I said, “All right, John, I’ll turn myself in in the morning.” He said, “No, Ken, we’re going to do this tonight.” I said okay, I’d meet him at my house. He said, “No, we’re going to meet at Mom’s house.” I felt doubtful about why he wanted to meet at our mom’s, but during my time in jail I figured it out: he knew she was about to lose another one of her kids, and he wanted us to spend a little more time together. I don’t remember much of the conversation at my mother’s house — we didn’t share many words — but I remember John walking through the door. I don’t think he said anything to her. He walked straight over to me and said, “Hey man, are you ready to pay for what you did?” I said, “Yes.”

I left my mother’s house with my brother and we started driving. He parked a distance from the courthouse and we walked. He was ahead of me, and somehow I found the courage to stop him. “Hey, John — how come you’re not taking any of your anger out on me?” In my mind, I thought maybe if he hurt me, he’d feel better. He looked me in the eyes again and said, “Ken, there’s nothing I can do to you that you’re not going to do to yourself.” Then he turned and kept walking. I remember going through that first set of doors, up to the bulletproof glass, where he did all the talking and I stood back. Eventually an officer came around the glass and asked me to put my arms behind my back. I walked to my cell, and that’s where I started my new life.

Interviewer: Standing in your shoes now, knowing what you know, what would you tell someone who’s thinking about drinking and driving?

Ken Hayes: Absolutely do not do it. Do not do it. There are plenty of options out there to take care of yourself and other people. This is something I have to live with for the rest of my life. I don’t know if you’ve ever thought about killing somebody, but it’s overwhelming — you can’t recover from it. I killed a 14-year-old. So let me go through this for you: find those options, talk to somebody, take the bus, use a designated driver. Anything but getting behind that wheel. You’re talking about an extra $50 for the good time — or $18,000 and a mindset you can never recover from. On paper, to this day, when I try to get a job, I’m a felon. I carry the record of a vehicular homicide offender. There are a lot of things I cannot do.

Narrator: We’ve heard from mothers who lost their children to drinking and driving. We’ve met Ken, who lost a loved one because of it. So please — don’t drive under the influence.