My name is Sam: only my ex-husband called me Samantha. And I'm in prison. Even the judge acknowledged that the best driver in the world, stone-cold sober, wouldn't have been able to avoid the crash. But my blood alcohol level was .082. And a woman died. Facts are facts. The law is the law. The judge was sympathetic, but examples have to be made. And, to tell the truth, there is a kind of justice going on here. I'm paying my dues, atoning for my crime, making amends. The Flying Fickle Finger of Fate waited four years before pointing at me, before demanding retribution

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