She was injured.
Officers began evaluating her.
They asked where she hurt.
They asked her to squeeze a hand.
They tried to determine whether she could move.
They asked about her breathing.
Her stomach hurt.
Her ribs hurt.
At one point, she said it was hard to breathe.
The officer stayed with her.
Keep squeezing my hand.
Do not move too much.
Help is coming.
Those are simple words.
But at the scene of a serious crash, simple words can be the only thing connecting an injured person to the reality around them.
The officer could not tell Sally what would happen.
He could not promise that she was fine.
He could only keep her talking, keep her responsive, and wait for the medical crews that were racing toward them.
Norman remained nearby, injured himself, worried about his wife.
There are scenes in police footage that are dramatic because of gunfire, shouting, or arrests.
And then there are scenes that are difficult to watch for a completely different reason.
An elderly husband asking someone to help his wife while both of them are sitting inside a wreck caused by two strangers trying to escape the police belongs to the second category.
Norman and Sally had no role in the carjacking.
They had no role in the alleged robbery.
They had no role in the decisions J. Marlin and Rontel had made during the previous days.
They had simply been traveling down the road.
Then the stolen Ford came toward them at high speed.
According to the account, J. Marlin swerved in an attempt to avoid the stop sticks.
The result was catastrophic.
The Ford crashed into the Schultzes’ white truck and struck another van.
In a fraction of a second, decisions made in a stolen car transferred their consequences to completely innocent people.
Other officers turned toward the suspects.
Both young men were still inside the badly damaged Ford.
The crash had left them trapped.
The passenger appeared to have suffered a severe leg injury.
His leg had been forced upward by the crushed interior.
Officers described it as folded toward his chest.
The dashboard had collapsed around him.
Simply pulling him from the wreck could make the injury worse.
Firefighters would need extrication equipment.
The jaws of life.
Cutting tools.
Possibly removing part of the roof or door.
But before rescuers could work safely, police had another issue.
A gun.
An officer asked one of the suspects about it.
Where is the gun?
Do not reach for it.
Do not point toward it.
Just tell us where it is.
That last instruction is important.
If an officer already believes there is a firearm in a wrecked vehicle, the last thing he wants is a suspect moving his hands toward the floorboard.
A movement that might appear harmless to the suspect could look like an attempt to grab a weapon.
So the officers kept repeating the same basic instruction.
Hands visible.
Do not reach inside.
Do not move toward the gun.
The passenger remained trapped.
The driver was also injured.
The car was crushed badly enough that firefighters would be needed.
One officer considered whether a suspect could be pulled through an opening.
Then he saw the position of the injured leg.
No.
They could not simply drag him out.
The medical rescue had to be handled correctly.
It created an unusual and uncomfortable scene.
The suspects were under arrest.
They were handcuffed or being restrained.
Officers believed a gun was somewhere inside the vehicle.
And yet those same officers had to reassure them.
Paramedics are here.
Keep breathing.
Do not move.
The fire department is coming.
They are going to cut you out.
You are going to be all right.
Police work sometimes produces moments like that.
An officer may be furious about what a suspect has allegedly done and still have a responsibility to keep that person alive.
The law does not stop applying because the suspect made reckless choices.
The suspect in the wreck still receives medical care.
At the same time, every officer there knew that Norman and Sally were suffering because the driver of that Ford had refused to stop.
The tension in some of the officers’ comments reflected that reality.
At least one officer expressed anger toward the fleeing suspects.
But the work continued.
Secure them.
Find the gun.
Help the victims.
Control traffic.
Bring ambulances in.
Bring the fire department in.
Close the road.
Make sure there are no additional suspects.
Make sure no weapons were thrown from the vehicle.
The entire intersection had become a major emergency scene.
Motorists approaching the area had to be turned around.
Officers blocked lanes.
Radio calls overlapped.
Firefighters prepared rescue equipment.
Paramedics began assessing injuries.
And police tried to preserve evidence from a crash that had scattered debris across the roadway.
Norman told officers his name.
Sally gave hers.
The officer continued holding her attention.
Squeeze my hand.
Do not move.
The seat belt was uncomfortable.
Her ribs hurt.
Her stomach hurt.
Breathing was difficult.
At that moment, it was still possible to hope that she had simply been badly shaken and bruised.
There was no obvious information in those first minutes that told officers how the night would end.
In the stolen Ford, meanwhile, police continued speaking with the passenger.
The transcript identifies him as Rontel Parks.
He was about 20 years old.
He appeared to be in significant pain.
The crushed dashboard trapped him.
Officers told him repeatedly that firefighters had to cut him out.
He could not simply climb free.
One officer tried to keep him talking.
How old are you?
Keep your head up.
Keep breathing.
They needed him conscious.
They also needed his hands visible.
That was the strange duality of the entire rescue.
Every movement was both a medical question and a security question.
Was he moving because he was in pain?
Was he reaching for support?
Was he reaching toward the gun?
Did the crash throw the firearm somewhere else inside the cabin?
Could there be a second weapon?
Could a gun have been thrown from the window during the pursuit?