Working PIby Richard J Stride, PsyD, LPC, LMHC
Some cases stay with you—not because of the headlines, but because of the silence. The unanswered questions. The moments that unravel slowly, long after the courtroom grows quiet.
This is the story of one of those cases.
As a forensic mental health professional, I’ve worked on many difficult cases where human tragedy, legal responsibility, and emotional complexity collide. But few tested my understanding of trauma, truth, and perception, like the case of 18-year-old John Jacobs*, charged with vehicular homicide after a collision that left a woman and her teenage son dead. John, in my opinion, wasn’t the one who made the turn that led to the crash. He was driving straight on a two-lane road, in the clear light of late afternoon, when another car turned left across his lane. John had less than two seconds to react. The impact was unavoidable.
The driver of the turning vehicle, Timothy Smith*, survived with only minor injuries. But in the passenger seat beside him, his wife was fatally injured. In the back seat, their 15-year-old son was mortally wounded.
Both died later at the hospital. John was speeding. He was driving about 80 mph in a 50 mph zone—a detail that would become the entire focus of the initial investigation. It was as if, in the chaos of grief and loss, the system needed someone to blame. And John, young and fast-moving, was easy to fixate on.
When the defense attorney contacted me, I wasn’t asked to determine guilt or innocence. I was asked to understand. To look at the raw underlying emotional material—dashcam footage, law enforcement interviews, and the behavior of both John and Timothy—and try to see what was happening beneath the surface.
What I saw in John was pain. Not performance. His reactions weren’t calculated or guarded; they were raw, immediate, and deeply human. This wasn’t a person who didn’t care. This was someone who looked like he had just lost a piece of himself. His trauma was not abstract, it was visible in the way he moved, in the way his voice cracked, in the way he instinctively tried to help the very people whose lives were ending before him. He wasn’t running from responsibility—he was collapsing under the weight of it. He didn’t just witness a tragedy; he absorbed it.
In contrast, Timothy Smith’s reactions raised difficult and deeply human questions. In both the footage at the scene and interviews at the hospital, he appeared strikingly flat—his tone neutral, his facial expression unreadable.
His wife had just been fatally injured. Her side of the vehicle absorbed the full impact of the crash. His son had also been fatally injured in the rear seat. His son wasn’t wearing his seatbelt. Most people would be overwhelmed with emotion at what just happened.
Yet Timothy made no attempt to see if his wife and son were ok. The officer’s dashcam footage later recorded him being asked if he would like to ride in the ambulance with his wife or son. His response was shocking; he simply said, “No.”
(story continues)
As a mental health professional, I understand that trauma can manifest in unpredictable ways. Emotional bluntness can be a form of psychological protection—a way the mind shields itself from overwhelming pain.
Dissociation, shock, and emotional suppression are real clinical phenomena. However, when a person acts with total disregard for others, especially family members, it’s shocking.
I had never seen anyone react to a horrifically gruesome scene involving their spouse and child in such a way. I was taken aback by his reaction to his family’s welfare. My mind was reeling to find answers. I struggled to put the pieces of this complicated puzzle together.
I would later learn from my teammate’s incredible PI work that history existed. A history of risky behavior, disregard for consequences, and an absence of consequential concern. A more complete picture of both Timothy and John began to emerge, looking at history and family social media accounts. Private Investigator Dean Alvarez uncovered and exposed Timothy’s checkered past.
What he found was Timothy Smith’s disregard for law enforcement, judicial rulings, and judicial oversight.
Timothy had a lengthy history of driving infractions, including drug-related charges, multiple speeding tickets, no insurance and driving under a suspended license.
PI Alvarez also accessed social media posts that painted a man whose attitude toward responsibility was not to take any, for anything.
Together, Alvarez and I built two sides of a truth the legal system hadn’t fully considered. Alvarez brought the mechanical clarity—braking data, lane positioning, legal failures of the original investigation. I brought the emotional and behavioral depth—who these people were, how they reacted, and what that might reveal about their roles in what happened.
We held many team meetings with the prosecution to coordinate every step. These weren’t just strategy sessions, they were acts of care. We wanted to make sure that John’s story didn’t get lost in the noise of public judgment. That the truth—messy, nuanced, human—was heard.
The case went to trial. After reviewing our findings, the jury found John guilty of a reduced charge. He received the minimum sentence allowed by law, which included a prison term.
Though the sentence was far less than what he initially faced, it still meant time behind bars, something he accepted with quiet resolve—truly unheard of by such a young person of just eighteen.
I never met John face-to-face. But I watched him in moments of raw exposure— moments you can’t fake. His tears. His voice cracked as he asked if the people in the other car were okay. The way he kept apologizing, not to escape punishment, but because he couldn’t stop hurting. It was all there.
Timothy Smith’s reaction was there, too. But it was harder to read. Harder to trust. And ultimately, part of a much larger pattern of behavior that the investigation had initially ignored.
Justice isn’t about perfection. It’s about pursuing understanding—even when that understanding challenges our instincts. In this case, we weren’t just defending John’s legal rights. We were defending his humanity.
What I took away from this case is simple, yet enduring: people are complicated. Trauma reshapes us. And sometimes the truest thing we can do in a courtroom is hold space for the story that isn’t being told.
In the end the jury could not just ignore the fact that two people died in an awful tragedy, nor should they have ignored this reality. As a team we all knew the inevitable outcome. But what we wanted the jury to see was a young man with his whole life ahead of him. A young man who was doing what a lot of young people do—speed, with minimal thought of consequences.
I knew and I wanted the jury to be aware of brain development. The brain doesn’t fully mature until the mid-20s— the frontal cortex (the decision-making section) is not in control, the emotional center is. Therefore, the thrill overrides the logic.
In John’s case, I saw remorse, not recklessness. I saw grief, not guilt. And I saw a young man who didn’t need to be punished. He needed to be seen.
*Names in this story have been changed for privacy.
About the Author
Dr. Stride is a licensed Private Investigator and Licensed Mental Health Counselor in Washington State. He frequently works with other PIs and Attorneys on cases. He is licensed in WA and TX. To reach him, email docrs59@drstrideforensic.org or visit his website www.drstrideforensic.org.
We’re always listening. Send your story submission/idea to the Editor: kendra@orep.org.
