After Losing Family, Man Tries to Find a Purpose in His Pain

It is a warm December day, and Patrick Carr is taking a drive.

First stop: the Glendale cemetery where his wife, Patricia, 36, and 6-year-old daughter, Caren, are buried. Two simple tombstones under a tree read, “Cute wife and mommy” and “The best daughter in the whole world.”

Last stop: the Glendale intersection where they were killed by a drunk driver.

Patrick Carr drives toward the traffic island on which they had been standing, first at the speed limit--35 m.p.h.--then at 40, now at 45. His hands grip the wheel, he leans forward in his seat and his aging Mercedes-Benz picks up speed as his blue eyes flash angrily.

Only his voice, gentle and rambling, remains calm.

“Can you imagine going around this curve at 79.2 m.p.h.?” he asks, referring to the speed police say William Conway was traveling when he hit and killed the Carrs and two others on July 13, 1988.

“There,” he says, pointing to an area south of the traffic island. “That’s where they landed. They were knocked out of their shoes. Their insides were just destroyed. Like a china plate being shattered.”

Patrick Carr, 38, is trying to cope.

He and William Cramer, 37, both lost a wife and daughter on that traffic island at Verdugo Road and Canada Boulevard. Valerie Cramer, 32, her daughter, Brianna, 9, and a son, Billy, 11, had been strolling with the Carrs that night. They were waiting on the island to cross the street. Only Billy, who was able to dive from the path of the speeding car, survived.

Conway, a boyishly handsome 28-year-old, was convicted Feb. 7 on charges of manslaughter and driving under the influence of alcohol. Next month he will be sentenced by a judge to up to 18 years in prison.

William Cramer was reserved before and during the trial, sticking close to friends and family. After the verdict, he wept, grinned, laughed and told reporters he actually felt a little sorry for Conway.

But Carr was different. He was a spokesman for the tragedy, answering any question posed. What certain technical testimony meant. What kind of shoes his daughter was wearing when she was killed. How he’ll survive.

On this warm day last December, several weeks before Conway will be convicted, Carr cannot predict the future. He knows only the past. And the past he grips tightly, like the steering wheel he holds with clenched hands.

After a visit to the cemetery, Carr drives down Hermosita Drive, his family’s old neighborhood. His front seat is loaded with photo albums, stocked with pictures of Patti, Caren and the house.

He proudly shows a Woman’s Day magazine article about Patti winning a home interior decorating contest. He himself had worked extensively on their home.

Carr, an electrical contractor, and Patti, a clerk at her parents’ balloon and party supply store, had been paying her parents for the house. Ten days after the accident, her parents asked Carr to move out. He moved into a small apartment in Montrose.

“You’re working and doing better, and you have a family with eight years of memories. Then boom,” he says, barely glancing at the house as he drives by. “Now I just want to go home. But I can’t. There’s no home to go home to.”

Minutes later, after speeding past the intersection, Carr drives back to it and parks. He walks quickly to the island as if this time his hurrying will make a difference.

The night of the accident, Carr explains, he noticed Patti and Caren were late, so he drove around looking for them. He came upon the intersection, noticed all the police cars, got a bad feeling and stopped to investigate, he says.

His recounting is quite detailed. He knows, from talking to people at the scene and from memory, exactly what the crowd was doing. He knows, from accident reports, talking to police and succumbing to his imagination, how the bodies flew and landed and looked. He remembers what the nurses, a pastor and others said at the hospital where Valerie Cramer had been taken while clinging briefly to her life.

What he doesn’t know is what happened to Patti and Caren after they died at the scene. This, perhaps, is what bothers him most.

“I have a hard time believing in God after all this,” he says. “I used to rub my wife’s back when it got sore. Can you imagine how sore she is now? And Caren, Caren had her tonsils out three weeks before. I remember her in the hospital. She’d wake up and say, ‘Daddy, my throat hurts.’ Then I’d say, ‘It’s OK, honey.’ ” His voice gently trails off. “It’s weird. They’re dead, but you still care about them.”

Several weeks later, Carr is dressed in a suit and tie and standing in a Pasadena Superior Court hallway during a recess in Conway’s trial.

During the last year and a half, Carr has come here dozens of times, attending every court appearance Conway makes. Carr has not worked regularly for many weeks, he says, because going to court takes up the better part of his days. He has supported himself with money from savings and insurance.

The proceedings captivate him. One morning, Carr excitedly reviews the day’s testimony with his sister, who is attending her first day of the trial. “What do you think?” he asks her. “Boring,” says his sister, appearing slightly irritated. “I’m leaving.”

She does, but not before chiding her brother for talking so freely with reporters. He will hear that message from others before the trial is over.

“For months after the accident happened, I talked about it at work,” he says. “I talked about it to strangers. I talked my friends’ ears off. People went crazy, and still do. But you know, my wife and daughter were killed, and I want something good to come out of this. I want it to stop people from getting in their cars after drinking. Maybe it can save one life.”

To improve the chances of meeting those goals, Carr almosts daily asks reporters how he can be more effective in print and on camera. He already has helped with a documentary on drunk driving that will be shown to school-age children. But he’s depending on heavier coverage to get the message across.

On Feb. 7, after the verdict is read, William Cramer leaves the courtroom with his son, Billy. He speaks happily to the swarm of microphones and cameras, hugs his son and laughs jubilantly. Next comes Patrick Carr, managing a faint smile.

“I can put it to bed now and go on with my life,” he tells reporters, his voice calm and gentle--the usual. “I have to. I don’t have a choice. I’ll never be able to walk my daughter down the aisle. I’ll never be able to let her go to the prom.”

Less than a week after the verdict, Patrick Carr has just worked a 19-hour day, his second day of work since the trial began. He has learned Conway’s attorney plans to appeal the conviction and he is angry. For the first time in weeks, his voice sounds different.

It is bitter.

“Now I remembered why I quit working nights--because I would start thinking about all this,” he says. “I was glad for the guilty verdict, but it doesn’t mean much because of the appeal, and because the sentencing is in the judge’s hands. It seems a shame.”

Once again responding to questions, he talks at length about his family’s old house, his former life, the trial, his reaction to the accident.

“I think I shocked the hell out of people because of my delivery,” he says. “I’m not morbid, though. It’s like I wanted the world to know about my beautiful wife and daughter. I wanted to show they existed. And I wanted their deaths to make a difference.”

He suddenly pauses, and it is his turn to ask a question. “Hey,” he asks, his voice calm and gentle and . . . hopeful. “Do you think it worked?”