“That’s funny. I’m having a little trouble understanding what I’m doing myself,” he said, putting the cuffs back on his belt and passing a hand through his cropped black hair. “And you can drop the ‘Officer’ there. My name’s Peter. Saint Peter, in your case, since I just saved your life. Now get back in your car and get out of here before somebody comes or I change my mind.”

“But how can I just go?”

“There aren’t any witnesses, and I haven’t called it in yet, is how,” he said.

“But I’m responsible.”

“Listen to me,” Peter said. “The state of Florida is waging a war on drunk driving, with extremely strict sentencing guidelines for vehicular manslaughter. Once I make you blow into the Breathalyzer, you’re looking at jail time. It’s a ridiculously stupid, politically motivated law. But the jury won’t see that, and neither will the judge. You can’t survive jail, Jeanine. You won’t make it.”

“But that poor man is dead. I can’t just walk away.”

“Let me tell you a little about that poor man,” Peter said. “His name is Ramón Peña. He was a hard-core meth and heroin addict who just got out of jail. We collared the repeat offender a couple of years ago, climbing out of an old lady’s window. He raped and robbed an eighty-three-year-old woman. Broke her jaw.”

Peter nodded at my surprise.

“When Ramón couldn’t find a drunk to roll, he’d bum money from tourists on Duval Street with his dog. That’s basically his obituary. Besides, it wasn’t even your fault. He was probably so high that he dove out in front of your car thinking it was a swimming pool. Ramón’s hurt enough people in his life. Don’t let his death take you out, too. You’re a decent person who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Now take your boyfriend’s keys and get out of here.”

“But…,” I said.

“I’m not asking you,” Peter said, putting the keys in my hand. “I’m telling you. Now go.”