Months later, after major fines, 16 hours of community service, lawyer fees and a broken car mirror to pay for, I signed in to my first of 12 weekly California court-mandated 90-minute D.U.I. group rehabilitation meetings on Zoom. I had six two-hour education sessions ahead, too.
At the group rehab meeting, I had to introduce myself by telling my story, which I filled with disgruntled details about being framed, rather than hideously drunk, while driving. I regretted mentioning I had a lawyer because our facilitator seized on it to let me know that nobody was above the law. (Paul Pelosi learned that when he was arrested and accused of drunken driving after a dinner party in Napa, Calif., last spring.)
“Nothing’s going to fix it, no matter how much money you have,” the facilitator said.
She was tough, obsessed with rules, and the months ahead with her seemed impossibly long. I tried to switch groups. But the agency providing the service couldn’t help.
According to the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, one person dies in a drunken driving crash every 45 minutes. That grim statistic is behind the mandate Congress attached in 2021 to the infrastructure bill requiring that, starting as early as 2026, automakers equip cars with technology that can prevent impaired driving. Until then, willpower and common sense are the only equipment that so many of us have.
Like a resentful adolescent, I stuck with my program and, despite myself, learned a thing or two. Our instructor told us that one in three drunken drivers forgets what he’s learned in training and ends up in bigger trouble. Learning that it can take hours for each shot of alcohol to leave the bloodstream — drinking water or coffee or eating something doesn’t do much — had its intended clarifying effect on my nights out.
By the time I finished my course, driving a car while drunk felt unthinkable, and in addition, I’d cut way down on my Manhattans and martinis and lost 15 pounds. My disdain for our tough group leader, who told us in harrowing detail about her own struggles, turned to appreciation. Somehow this unlikely group of fellow reckless drivers had become if not family then familiar to me, and our regular time together had become an emotional ballast.
At the end of my last meeting, members wished me luck. Then our group leader bid me well and added that she didn’t expect me back. She hit the end meeting button and was gone, leaving me with free time on Wednesdays and a certificate stating I’d completed the course for my record.