"The median cost of a house is $230,000, $250,000," Thomas points out. "The average cost of a vehicle is $20,000. When somebody gets a $40 ticket, they just mail it in. The unit came up with the idea of raising tickets. We don't feel that people were taking them seriously."
While raising fines might increase the city treasury (last year the city collected $5.8 million in traffic fines), Kolts says that's not the point of the proposal. Not only will increasing traffic fines bring Denver in line with other counties, but it might make drivers more cautious. "By the time it's over and done with," he says, "people will take notice."
John Johnston
John Johnston
September Dixon with her son, Daímon.
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Over the past year, the Dixons have become all too familiar with the hazards of Denver's traffic. In the frantic days after the accident, Denise's sister Robin was ticketed twice for speeding. Because she'd gotten a speeding ticket earlier in the year, she's now driving with a probationary license, meaning she can only drive to and from work -- and at work: Ironically, she drives an armored car for a living.
Another one of September's aunts, Gail Watkins, was in an accident herself as she was driving home from the hospital the day that Alexis died. It was snowing, and as she turned off Martin Luther King Boulevard, the car was clipped from behind -- causing it to spin out of control, slam through a fence and into a yard, where it collided with a tree. Watkins, who'd rolled down the passenger window just moments before to help defog the glass, was ejected through that open window. She spent the next four days in intensive care, unconscious. Today she still complains of head and neck pain.
A few months after Alexis's death, September and her two living children moved out of Denise's home and into an apartment with Dancy in northeast Denver.
The place is comfortable, filled with nice furniture and a massive Phillips television set -- which Dancy says he paid for himself. But it's also one of the low-income apartments just south of the Dahlia Shopping Center that's slated to be torn down and relocated a few blocks north, making way for a new grocery store.
The family is already looking for somewhere to move.
After the accident, September couldn't hold Daímon for several months. "Every time I held him, he just screamed," she says. "He knew something was wrong. He would just cry and cry, just like me."
Although Daímon still whimpers in his sleep, today he's a happy baby. He turned one over Easter weekend. His name is tattooed on his mother's shoulder, just above three roses.
Erica, who is now seven, has grown moody. She doesn't eat much, doesn't sleep much, and she's become outspoken -- more like her dead sister.
September suffers from headaches, memory loss, loss of appetite, lack of sleep. When she does sleep, she has nightmares. She's engaged to Dancy -- who's working at a convenience store while studying computer science at college -- but doesn't think she'll get married until next year. She returned to work as a stock supplier at a nearby Kmart, but lost the job just last week. Her leg has begun bothering her again. Her knee buckles and threatens to give out whenever she walks, and she says she'll need surgery. But September's in no hurry to go under the knife or to go back to work.
The Bronco was in an accident last month; its shiny fender sits outside the apartment. September is still waiting to get it reattached.
The Mother's Day accident changed her profoundly. "Mentally, she isn't the same person she was before the accident," says Denise. "Her attitude toward life, her outlook, has changed."
Denise told her daughter that time heals wounds -- but so far, it hasn't.
"It's a big piece of me still missing," September says. "I don't really go anywhere."
