My Dad Called The Cops On Me For WRECKING His $80,000 Camaro But The Officer’s Dashcam Footage…
My dad called the cops on me for wrecking his $80,000 Camaro. He froze when the officer played the dash cam footage. My name is Jason, and I never thought a piece of metal and glass could destroy a family. But my father proved me wrong. He loved cars more than he loved people. He definitely loved his new Camaro more than he loved me.
And in the end, that car was the vehicle of his complete destruction. My father, Robert, was a man who cared about one thing, image. He was a successful real estate agent in our town. The kind of guy whose face was on bus benches and billboards. He had the perfect suit, the perfect watch, and he wanted the perfect family.
The problem was I wasn’t perfect. I was 22, working as a mechanic, and I had grease under my fingernails most of the time. To him, I was a disappointment. He wanted a son who was a lawyer or a doctor, someone he could brag about at the country club. Instead, he got me. We lived in a large house in a gated community.
I was still living at home because I was saving up for a down payment on my own place. I paid rent to my parents, bought my own food, and kept to myself. My mother, Linda, was quiet. She spent her life trying to keep the peace, walking on eggshells around my father’s massive ego. 3 months ago, my father went through what I call his super midlife crisis.
He went out and bought a brand new Chevrolet Camaro’s yell. It was black on black, looked like a stealth bomber, and cost him over $80,000. It was a beast of a car, $650 horsepower. It was loud, fast, and aggressive, just like him. He was obsessed with it. He parked it in the garage and literally put velvet ropes around it so nobody would brush against the paint.
He wiped it down with a microfiber cloth every single night. He made rules about the car. No eating in it, no drinking in it. And specifically, Jason is never allowed to touch it. I didn’t care. I worked on cars all day. I drove fast cars at the shop. I didn’t need to drive his precious toy.
But he made a big point of dangling it in front of me. This is a machine for men who have earned it, he would say, jingling the keys. Maybe one day, if you get a real job, you can afford a tire for a car like this. I just ignored him. I knew he was a terrible driver. He was aggressive, impatient, and thought the rules of the road didn’t apply to him because he drove a luxury car.
I was actually worried he was going to kill himself in it. That worry is why I did what I did. About 2 weeks after he bought the car, I bought him a dash cam. It wasn’t a cheap one. It was a high-end 4K camera that recorded the front, the rear, and the interior of the cabin. It had GPS, speed tracking, and cloud backup.
I gave it to him as a peace offering. I said, “Dad, with a car this expensive, you need protection. People drive crazy. This will prove it wasn’t your fault if someone hits you.” He scoffed at it. I don’t need a camera. I’m an excellent driver. But fine, install it. Just don’t scratch the dashboard. I installed it perfectly.
I hid the wires so you couldn’t even see them. I set it up, linked it to the cloud, and showed him how it worked. He looked at it for 5 seconds, lost interest, and walked away. He completely forgot about it. He assumed it was just a gadget that sat there. He didn’t realize it was always watching. Fast forward to last Saturday.
It was a humid night. My mom was out of town visiting her sister for the weekend. It was just me and dad at the house. I had worked a long shift at the shop and was exhausted. I went to my room around 9:00 p.m. Put on my headphones, played some video games, and then fell asleep. I woke up to the sound of pounding on my door. It wasn’t a normal knock.
It was aggressive. Bam, bam, bam. I looked at my phone. It was 3:15 a.m. Jason, open this door. Open it right now. It was my father. He sounded hysterical. I rolled out of bed, confused and groggy. I opened the door and he pushed past me into my room. He was wearing his bathrobe, but he was sweating. His face was red.
You ungrateful little thief. He screamed. What did you do? What are you talking about? I asked, rubbing my eyes. The car, my Camaro, it’s gone. My stomach dropped. “Gone? Did someone steal it?” “Don’t play dumb with me,” he yelled, getting right in my face. I could smell alcohol on his breath.
“The keys are gone from the hook. You’re the only one here. You took it for a joy ride, didn’t you? Where is it? Did you scratch it?” “Dad, I have been asleep since 10:00,” I said. “I didn’t touch your car. I don’t want to drive your car.” “Liar!” he screamed. “I’m calling the police. I’m not protecting you this time.
You steal my car, you pay the price.” He pulled out his phone and actually dialed 911. I stood there in shock. He was reporting his own son forGrand Theft Auto. I tried to reason with him. “Dad, hang up. Let’s look outside. Maybe you parked it somewhere else.” “I parked it in the garage,” he roared. And now the garage door is open and the car is gone.
He gave the operator his address and told them, “My son stole my $80,000 vehicle. I want officers here now.” 20 minutes later, the front yard was lit up with blue and red lights. Two police cruisers pulled up. A third car pulled up shortly after. It was a tow truck, but not for us.
An officer walked to the door. Officer Miller, he was a big guy. Serious face. Mr. Reynolds? The officer asked. Yes, my dad said. He put on his victim face. He looked almost ready to cry. Officer, thank you for coming. I am devastated. My son, he has a problem. He took my new Camaro while I was sleeping.
I just want my car back. Officer Miller looked at me. Is this your son? Yes, Dad said. He’s a mechanic. He knows how to hotwire cars or he just stole the keys. He’s been jealous of that car since I bought it. Officer Miller turned to me. Sir, step out onto the porch, please. I walked out.
Officer, I didn’t take the car. I’ve been asleep. Just then, another radio call came through on the officer’s shoulder mic. It was loud enough for us to hear. Dispatch to unit 4. We found the vehicle matching the description. Black Camaro’s ZL1. It’s wrapped around a utility pole on Oak Street. Total loss.
No driver on scene. My dad let out a theatrical gasp. He put his hand over his mouth. Oh my god. He wrecked it. He wrecked my dream car. He pointed a shaking finger at me. You destroyed it. You useless, jealous waste of space. I didn’t drive it. I yelled back. I was in bed. Save it for the judge. Dad spat at me.
Then he looked at the officer. I want to press charges. Full extent. Grand theft auto, destruction of property, reckless driving, everything. I want him arrested. Maybe prison will straighten him out. Officer Miller looked at me suspiciously. Son, if you were driving, you need to tell us. Leaving the scene of an accident is a felony.
If you were drunk, it’s worse. I wasn’t driving. I insisted. Check the car for Prince. Check the seat position. I’m 6’2. My dad is 5’8. The seat will be different. He probably moved the seat. Dad yelled. Officer, look at him. He’s lying. He’s always been a liar. I felt trapped. My own father was actively trying to frame me.
He was so convincing. He was the respected community pillar and I was the grease monkey son. I could see the officer was believing him. Turn around and place your hands behind your back. Officer Miller said to me, “I’m detaining you while we investigate.” I felt the cold metal of the handcuffs click onto my wrists.
My dad stood there with his arms crossed, a look of grim satisfaction on his face. He wasn’t sad about the car anymore. He was happy he was winning against me. That’s right, Dad said. Take him away. Then it hit me. The dash cam. My dad had forgotten about it. He never used the app. He never checked the memory card, but I had the app on my phone.
Officer, I shouted. Wait, the car has a camera. Officer Miller paused. What? I installed a dash cam in that car 3 weeks ago, I said, speaking fast. It records the interior and the exterior. It uploads to the cloud. I have the app on my phone. It will show you exactly who was driving. My dad’s face went pale.
In the flashing blue lights of the police car, I saw his confidence drain away instantly. There’s no camera, Dad stammered. >> >> He’s making it up. He’s stalling. It’s on my phone. I said my phone is in my pocket. Please, officer, look at the footage. If it shows me driving, take me to jail, but you have to look.
Officer Miller looked at my dad, who was now sweating profusely. Then he looked at me. Okay. Officer Miller said, “I’ll look.” He unccuffed one of my hands so I could reach my phone. My hands were shaking, not from fear, but from adrenaline. I opened the app. It connected to the cloud storage. There was a file from tonight.
Timestamp 2:30 a.m. Here, I said, handing the phone to the officer. Officer Miller took the phone. My dad took a step forward, looking like he wanted to snatch it. Stay back, sir. The officer warned him. Officer Miller pressed play. He turned the volume up. The video started. The view was from the interior camera pointing into the cabin.
The first thing we heard was laughter. It wasn’t my voice. It was my dad’s voice. Who? Stick to the floor. Baby, dad yelled in the video. He was in the driver’s seat. But he wasn’t alone. In the passenger seat was a woman. It definitely wasn’t my mother. It was a woman I recognized. It was Mrs.
Henderson, the wife of his business partner. She was laughing, holding a red solo cup. Robert, slow down. She giggled, spilling her drink on theexpensive leather seats. This car can handle it, baby. Dad slurred. He was clearly drunk. His eyes were glassy in the video. Officer Miller looked up from the phone at my dad.
Is that you, sir? My dad was frozen. He looked like a statue. He didn’t speak. The video continued. The car was swerving. You could see the speedometer on the dash overlay. 85 mph in a 35 zone. Then the tone changed. Watch out. The woman screamed. There was a loud thump. The car jerked violently. What was that? The woman cried.
Robert, you hit something. You hit that dog walker. My blood ran cold. He hadn’t just hit a pole. Shut up. Dad yelled in the video. He didn’t stop. He accelerated. You have to stop. She screamed. I can’t stop. I’ve been drinking. I’ll lose my license. Dad yelled back. The car took a sharp turn, tires screeching.
Dad lost control. The camera spun as the car spun. Then a massive crunch. The airbags deployed, filling the cabin with white dust. The video went silent for a second, then coughing. We got to go, Dad said, shoving the airbag away. We got to go. Run. I’ll report it stolen. I’ll blame Jason. He’s home.
You can’t blame your son, the woman cried. He’s a loser. Nobody will believe him. Dad shouted. Get out. Run to your house through the woods. I’ll run home. The video showed them scrambling out of the wreckage. The recording ended. Officer Miller stood there in silence for a long moment.
He looked at the phone, then he looked at me. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the key to the handcuffs. He unlocked my wrists. I apologized, “Son,” Officer Miller said. Then he turned to my father. “My dad was trembling. He tried to speak, but nothing came out. He looked like a cornered rat.” “Mr. Reynolds,” Officer Miller said, his voice hard and cold.
“Turn around and place your hands behind your back.” “Wait,” Dad squeaked. It It was a deep fake. He edited it. That’s AI. Save it. The officer said, grabbing my dad’s wrist and spinning him around. He slapped the cuffs on him tight. Robert Reynolds, you are under arrest for driving under the influence, reckless driving, leaving the scene of an accident with injury, and filing a false police report.
Injury? Dad asked, his voice shaking. Yeah, the officer said, “We got a report of a pedestrian hit on Oak Street 5 minutes before the crash. He’s in critical condition.” That makes this a felony hit and run. You’re looking at serious time. My dad started crying, not the fake crying he did earlier. Real ugly crying, Jason.
He yelled at me as the officer walked him to the cruiser. Jason, tell them. Tell them you let me drive. Don’t let them take me. I’m your father. I stood on the porch and crossed my arms. I looked him dead in the eye. You said it yourself. Dad, I said loud enough for the neighbors to hear. I’m just a loser. Nobody will believe me.
They shoved him into the back of the car. The aftermath was brutal. My mom came home the next morning. I had to show her the video. Seeing her husband drunk with another woman plotting to frame their son, it broke something in her, but it also woke her up. She filed for divorce immediately.
And because of the video evidence of his infidelity and his criminal actions, she had all the leverage. The man dad hit survived thankfully, but he had a broken leg and a concussion. Dad is facing a massive lawsuit from him on top of the criminal charges. Because dad was the face of his real estate firm, the news destroyed his business overnight.
Nobody wants to buy a house from a guy who hits pedestrians and frames his own kid. His partners kicked him out. He is currently sitting in jail awaiting trial. The judge denied him bail because he is considered a flight risk and has a history of lying to authorities. As for me, I’m doing fine. With dad out of the picture, mom needed help.
managing the estate and the finances. She realized I wasn’t just a grease monkey. I helped her navigate the lawyers and the banks. We sold the big house. It had too many bad memories. Mom bought a nice condo for herself. She gave me a significant chunk of money from the settlement as an apology for not standing up for me sooner.
I used that money to open my own performance auto shop. It’s doing great. I have a weight list of customers who trust me with their cars. Sometimes people ask me if I feel bad for my dad. They say, “He’s still your father.” I just think back to that night. I think about how easily he was willing to throw my life away to save his own reputation.
I think about him screaming, “He’s a loser.” while wiping his mistress’s lipstick off his face. No, I don’t feel bad. He loved that Camaro more than anything in the world. It’s fitting that the Camaro is what took everything from him. The car was totaled, crushed into a cube at the scrapyard. But I keptone thing from it, the dash cam.
It sits on a shelf in my office at my new shop. A little reminder that the truth always comes out, especially in 4K resolution.
