Prologue: The recent coverage of Kerry Kennedy's trial for an auto accident that she blames on driving under the influence of Ambien caused me to flashback to my own similar episode some 10 years ago. Many people wrote her lawyers to tell them that they had had the same experience and I thought of doing so but did not. What follows is a narrative account with only names changed of what truly happened to me in April, 2004.

Sarah awoke on a Wednesday in April to the flashing lights of the reproduction Art Deco alarm clock. It was 5:30 a.m. and pitch black. Sliding quietly out of bed without disturbing gently snoring Jake, she moved silently into routine. An e-mail check. Finishing yesterday's New York Times. Calendar review. Checking Orbitz promotional fares.

It was the first morning this week that she felt her normal energy surge. By 6:15 a.m. she was noisily back in the bedroom and bathroom, pulling on her work-out clothes, brushing her teeth, popping her hormones and calcium tablets. A kiss to Jake, who tried to pull her back into bed.

"Bye, Honey."

"Where are you going?"

"Jake, you know where I always go."

"Are we in or out tonight?"

"In. I thought I'd pick up some strip steaks for dinner."

"Good, just get one for the two of us. I don't want to eat too much."

"Okay, love, I'll see you tonight. "

Sarah backed her 1999 Saab carefully out of her driveway, quivering, (suddenly panicked as she remembered) the past two mornings.

She had returned from New York on Sunday night. While waking tired on Monday, she had resumed this same ritual. Somewhere en route to her walk and the gym, along Collins, she had a memory of being slumped over the wheel with her upper lip and nose in pain. A small dark woman, Caribbean, had come up to her out of the shadows.

"You hit my car. The car is okay. I am okay, but I am pregnant," Sarah thinks she remembers the woman saying in a melodious accent. Sarah knows she did her usual speed walk down the boardwalk that day, but does not remember much else of that early morning. A small dent on the front fender and her swollen upper lip were the only indication that there had been an accident. But was the woman real? Had she fallen asleep at the wheel and stopped short? Had she hit something, or was the dent from some other time?

Her memories of early Tuesday morning are not much clearer, although yesterday she had made it to the gym as well as taken her walk. She even remembered a surrealistic scene in the locker room of several of the regulars standing in front of the sinks, freshly showered and wrapped in white towels, while Judge Samantha Simmons (Judge Sam to her workout mates) performed a ceremony swearing a young lawyer into admission to the Florida Bar.

The big discussion had been, picture or not? Someone had a cell phone with a camera and wanted to record the moment, but Judge Sam was concerned about a media leak. Sarah knows she showered, dressed and had breakfast at the gym before an early morning meeting downtown.

Later Tuesday morning, when she emerged with a colleague from the meeting, the front of her car was badly dented and the bumper protruding, much worse than the day before. It looked as if another vehicle had backed into her on the street — and left without reporting the incident.

But this was Wednesday, and while still trying to figure out what had happened Monday — had she fallen asleep at the wheel? Had she had a mini-stroke?—she felt great.

Sarah's next recollection on that Wednesday morning was making the turn into the parking lot north of the Eden Roc, and hearing some type of clunk, clunk, clunk noise. She was finding the car hard to steer. She parked in her usual spot in front of the bath house and walked up the steps and out onto the boardwalk. She was struggling to stand upright. In the light dark of almost dawn there were the usual shapes ahead of fellow walkers. But why were there three of the same person with the same leashed dog? She felt disjointed, disconnected, wandering as if in a drug-induced fog, fearful of dropping into a heap on the path, praying for a safe return, thinking of calling out for help.

By the time Sarah returned to her car, the sun was out. As she started to get in, she was interrupted by a stranger walking by.

"You can't drive that car, lady," he announced.

Sarah walked over to the passenger side. The whole front fender was smashed, the headlight dangling from a wire, the tire flat, the wheel bent. She grabbed her cell and called AAA. Within minutes a patrol car pulled up and a tall, young Miami Beach policeman got out and approached her.

"Is that your car, lady?

"Yes, Officer."

"You just hit a car and left the scene of an accident."

Before she could respond, a police cruiser pulled up and a stocky middle-aged officer with a bulldog face emerged.

"Lady, you just left the scene of an accident," he said bluntly.

"Officer, I don't know what you are talking about," she said.

"Look at your car lady, what do you think happened? There are witnesses. They said you seemed inebriated."

"I thought maybe I hit a curb?"

"You still have to report it."

He demanded her license and registration and headed back to his cruiser.

"Lady," the young officer said gently, "if you don't admit this accident he will arrest you. He should arrest you."

Sarah didn't know what to do, but she remembered what her husband always said: tell authority figures you need their help. She approached the officer. "Officer, I am in your hands. I really don't remember anything. You say there are witnesses. I really don't know. I don't feel well. I don't know what is wrong."

It must have been the right approach, because the accusations stopped. The officer issued two tickets—for leaving the scene of the accident and failure to report an accident.

"Here, lady," he said. "You will have to go to court. I really should arrest you. The only reason I am not is because there were no injuries."

He left her with the junior officer, who issued yet another citation, a routine traffic violation for careless driving. He asked if she wanted an ambulance to go to the hospital. No, she responded, she would go with the tow truck and see a doctor later.

When the tow truck arrived, she climbed in. Her mind was racing as she tried to understand what had happened or what might have happened. How could she have hit someone and remember nothing? What was wrong with her? On the way to Collision Solutions, the driver drove through McDonald's at her request. She hoped some food and coffee might help clear her head. She kept replaying the last three mornings, trying to find an explanation.

As soon as her Saab was dropped off, the rental agency picked her up and took her to their office to pick up a car. She was home by 10. She climbed the stairs to her bathroom, took out her eyeglasses and went to the medicine chest. Several identical prescription bottles stood lined up. She opened the first, where she kept her hormones, and examined the familiar little white pill. The shape seemed slightly off, more elongated than oval. She looked at the bottle. Ambien. The sleeping pills she kept in the suitcase she had unpacked Sunday night. She had gotten out of bed, done her routine email, brushed her teeth, popped her pills and left.

A tiny lady with a Jamaican accent. Towel clad women having some kind of ceremony. Disembodied dogs and walkers floating by.

Epilogue: I had to go to court and did so with great trepidation as to whether or not I'd get a fair trial as an Anglo upper middle class female in Miami, where juries are very multi-ethnic and I was on trial accused of leaving the scene of an accident involving a low-income Hispanic woman.

I was fortunate that neither the policemen nor the driver of the car I was accused of hitting appeared (and I say accused because I have no memory of the incident). As a result the judge dismissed the case. What I learned the hard way – lots of sleepless nights about the "what-ifs" (what if I had killed someone in my stupor, killed myself, caused major injury to myself or others) was to be very careful in how I stored my medicines and to wear my eye glasses when choosing one.

Kerry Kennedy was found innocent Feb. 28 of driving under the influence, as she should have been, with the jury making its decision in less than an hour. I'll never know how the jury would have ruled in my case but am glad that I didn't have to live through that angst.

JoAnne Bander is a writer and consultant who lives in Miami, Fla., and Spruce Head, Maine. Her writing focuses on personal commentary about current issues and the sustainable food movement.