Does anyone know anything about treet racing in Georgia. Turns out that I was pulled over for speeding and some dumbass hick puled over as well claiminhg that I was street racing on the highway. Anyways, i'm from Florida and have no clue in ragard to Georgia laws so if anyone can help....

 

GA state troopers scare me...

 

They are sneaky bastards, that's for sure.

GA street racing laws are stiff. You can't simply pay a fine, you must appear before a judge. Usually results in license revocation.

 

Well, were you racing?

 

i know back in 93 my dad (who was a volvo dealer) was driving down a dark part of a main street in Greensboro, NC and two camaros came racing around hitting him and killing him. they were both doing an estimated 110-120 mph on a 35 mph road. since my mother was dying of cancer at the time, no one was there to pay the bills while lawsuits were pending and she was found not to be able to take care of me. i was shifted from house to house state to state and ended up homeless at one point on the streets of atlanta. i was 14 btw. so moral to this story, anyone who street races.... i hope someone who has gone thru what i have because of two bitch ass camaro cock suckin fucks finds you racing fucks and slowly kills your mother, father, kids, and anyone else who is close to you.... and then lets you if "racing" makes your balls feel any bigger. NO DISRESPECT to anyone but of you street race... think.... your going to destroy someone elses life someday by doing something stupid as fuck. fuck up your own life. dont risk someone elses.

 

Yeah the law in GA says "Dont do it." And they mean... Dont do it. They will NAIL - YOUR - ASS! Especially if you are in podunk, you'll find a pleasant GSP trooper sittin there to blast you with a laser and then haul your ass of to the clink. Do it at the track. Some of my friends have gotten busted and have had a few charges.

 

i dont know exactly how bad it is. but if i do remember correctly it does encompass a license suspension. and i think it was like 6 or 8 points on the license? it is something hefty along those lines. so you better be sure you didn't do it.

 

my condolences man. no one should have to go through that.

Bob (SSTS)

 

I hope you eventually sued them for all their worth.

As for this thread, seems kinda fishy to me. How does someone mistake you for street racing? You must have been going pretty fast or driving pretty wrecklessy while someone else was next to you doing the same. Anyways, how can the cop give him a ticket for street racing if he did not witness it. Isnt that just one person's word versus anothers?

 

They race out here often. I can hear the engines screaming, but can't figure out where they are doing it. The georgia patrol is like five minutes from my house and we even an officer in my subdivision......they have some big balls to be doing it around here.

Also georgia is known for its speed traps especially on the interstates to and from florida, savanah, and tennessee.

 

heres something that was written by my mother. she past away in 2003 after 11 years of fighting lung and throat cancer. this is her story and can be found of this site

http://www.egertonlaw.com/articles.shtml

Its long but shows the effect of making one dumb choice.... to street race..... please read and take to the heart. This story is 100% the truth and is my life in 1993-1995. By the way, im Jason Bradburd (just so you know whos who in the writings....




“The Longest Night” - Death Case
September 3, 1995
by Denise Bradburd
Denise Bradburd’s husband died two years ago when a silver Camaro going more than 100 mph careened out of control on High Point Road, plowed into his Volvo and pushed his car’s engine into his lap.

Richard Bradburd, a 41-year-old sales manager of an auto dealership, was the victim of a high-speed drag race.
The driver of the Camaro, Tony Maffeo, was found guilty in November 1993 of two counts of involuntary manslaughter and sentenced to five years in prison for the deaths of his wife, Ramona, who was riding with him, and of Richard Bradburd.

Last month, a Guilford County jury awarded Denise Bradburd, 44, nearly $1 million. Jurors said they believed she deserved that much from Maffeo and Jeriel Gaydon III, each in their 20s, who turned a stretch of High Point Road into a race track.

Bradburd’s attorney, Lawrence Egerton of Greensboro, says he hoped for a larger settlement. But he says he is satisfied that his client was awarded $928,750.11 to compensate her for what happened to her husband.

As for Bradburd, the civil award does little to ease the emotional pain of losing a husband and the father of her son Jason.

She will always remember that night. It was May 25, 1993, a night of watching “America’s Most Wanted,” of getting worried about her husband and of driving up to a kaleidoscope of red lights and seeing her husband’s wrecked car on the side of the road. This, in her own words, is her story. – Jeri Rowe


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tuesday, May 25, 1993
It was around 8 p.m. when Rich met Jason and me at All American Sports on Spring Garden Street. Sonny Cashion had been working with Jason on his batting for a couple of weeks. The lesson was over when Rich arrived.

He and Sonny talked for a while about how Jason was doing. When we left, Jason came with me in my car and Rich drove the Volvo.


Jay and I stopped for a soda. Rich was going to go to Drug Emporium for my prescription. We all met back at the apartment a short time after 8:30 p.m. There was confusion with the painkiller the doctor gave me for my wrist. Rich called the pharmacy and straightened it out.

About 9 p.m. an “America’s Most Wanted” special was coming on. Rich asked Jay if he was hungry for McDonald’s or for a sub. They both decided on a sub from Subway. Rich stood in the door and told me he was going to get me a salad. He said, “I’ll get you something good.”

I told him the special was coming on and he said he wouldn’t be long and wanted to watch it too. He appeared happy, smiling and all, that I asked him why he was so happy. He said he didn’t know and laughed.

I asked, “Did you have a good day at work?” he laughed again and said, “No, I’ll tell you about it when I get back. Love Ya.”

I almost went after him to find out about his day. I wish I had.

Shortly before 9:30 I started to feel queasy. I thought it might be the painkiller I had taken. I began getting very nervous and worried about Rich. At 9:45 I got dressed and went into Jay’s room. I told him, “Jay, I am worried about Dad. I don’t like him going out at night and I’m afraid something has happened. Come out to the living room and listen for the phone. I’m going to go look for Dad and make sure he is all right.”

Jay looked at me funny and said, “You’re not going out alone. I’m going with you.” I told him to hurry and put on his shoes because I was leaving right now. We drove down High Point Road. We saw police cars and fire trucks, and we heard an ambulance leaving. We were stuck behind a line of cars. After a few minutes, I pulled the car off the road as far as I could.

“Jay, stay here. I have to see if it’s Dad.” He started to get out and I warned him, “Please don’t argue with me. Stay here.” He ignored me and walked behind me, telling me to slow down. “OK, Jay. Maybe Dad is stuck on the other side of this. I don’t know but I feel very scared.” We saw Rich’s car at about the same time. I yelled at Jay, “Stay there.” I could hear him saying, “It’s Dad’s car. It’s Dad’s car.” I ran to the back of the Volvo and looked at the plate. I saw the dealer tag. I couldn’t breathe. “It’s your Dad’s car. Oh my God.”

I didn’t really remember anything for a few minutes. Then suddenly it seemed as if there were a bunch of people holding me.

A fireman and a man whose name I found out later was Derrick were asking me questions. I could barely hear them. I stood staring at that Volvo and all the blood.
I knew then that it was very bad and that Rich would not be with us anymore. My heart felt so heavy. My ears felt closed yet I knew these people were talking. I just couldn’t hear them. Even with all those people I felt helpless and very alone for the first time in 20 years.

The fireman was telling me to go with Derrick. I remember telling him I don’t even know this man. He said the guy was safe and could take us to Moses Cone Hospital, which is where they had taken Rich. I began asking questions. Jason was asking things too.

“How did this happen?” I asked. “It wasn’t your husband’s fault. Two cars (other than Rich’s) were racing and the one in the white Camaro kept going. They are looking for him now.”

I looked over at the car that had hit my husband head-on. There was no front end left on it. It was still smoking from the fire they had obviously extinguished.

The whole driver’s side of Rich’s car was caved in. The air bags had come out. There was so much blood on them. There was glass all over the road. The lights from the police cars and fire trucks illuminated everything eerily. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. I kept staring at the Volvo. How did he get out of it? Nothing made any sense.


Derrick got Jason and me back into my car and the police to let him through. He told them, “This is the man’s wife and son; the one in the Volvo. I’m taking them to the hospital.”

Derrick kept telling us that Rich would probably be all right and that the air bags may have saved his life. He told us that Rich was conscious when they got him out of the car, but that his legs were hurt very bad.

I asked him how bad. “Very bad,” he said. Time seemed to be at a standstill. When we got to the hospital emergency entrance I went to the front desk. I had to give them information about Rich Doe. That scared me. I thought he had been conscious. Why couldn’t he have given them his name”?

As I was answering their questions, I kept asking them if Rich was OK. They didn’t know. Then someone came and put Jay, me and Derrick in a small room.
I told Jay to call Tim Gales, our apartment’s maintenance man, and to call his brother Mike, one of my adult twin sons from a previous marriage, who lives in Archdale. I couldn’t remember any phone numbers so I told Jay to call Tim and have him get my phone directory from our apartment. I couldn’t think and I couldn’t sit there. It seemed forever and then Mike was there.

It was midnight when Dr. Matthew Martin came into the room. He introduced himself and told me that Rich was not going to make it. “Your husband’s been hurt very bad. He went into cardiac arrest in the ambulance and was resuscitated. Right now he is on the ventilator. We’re going to surgery, but it does not look good.” I signed papers for surgery and also for them to disconnect the life support in the event that there was nothing that could be done. My heart ached, but I knew Rich would not want to be left on any machines. We had discussed that many times. I just never thought I would have to be in this situation.

I asked to see Rich. Dr. Martin took me in. I saw my husband lying there with his left arm over his head, broken and out of shape. He had never been sick since I’d known him. It was a shock to see him lying there with the ventilator and bags of blood and fluids attached. The only place I could touch him was on his forehead. He was so very cold. It reminded me of when Mama died last year. At the funeral I had kissed her forehead and she was cold.

This was Rich. I felt my breath rush out of me. I told him, “Rich, I’m here. Please don’t give up. I need you. I love you so very much. I’m going to stay here while you go to surgery. You try hard and fight this. I love you.”

I didn’t know if he could hear me. I found out weeks later from Dr. Martin that he had been given a drug that paralyzed him from the neck down. He heard, but couldn’t respond. I looked up at Dr. Martin and he walked out with me. I grabbed the lapel of his hospital jacked and begged him, “Please don’t let Rich die. He’s a good man. Please?”

He looked at me for what seemed a long time and gently told me, “I’ll do everything I can.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. I realized I still had his jacket. I let go and told him I knew he would do his best. A woman took Jay in. I asked Dr. Martin if it was OK for Jay to go. I told him he was only 12 years old. He said it was. When he came out of his Dad’s room, he was crying and his face was white. He looked faint. I don’t know why, but I had to get out of that room. I told Mike, Jay and Derrick I was going outside. The woman said she would watch Jay and stay with him. I wanted to stay with Jay, but I just had to get out of there. Mike and Derrick came with me.

I prayed, as I never had before. Just let Rich live. I will take care of him. Please just let him live. Please, God, help us now. There were a couple of people standing outside the hospital smoking. The woman came over to us and asked if we were involved in the accident on High Point Road. She then said she was the mother of Tony Maffeo, the driver of the car that crashed Rich. There was a man with her. She didn’t introduce him to us.

I told her the doctor had said that Rich would probably not make it. She said her daughter-in-law, Ramona, who was with Maffeo when he crashed, was hurt very bad and was possibly brain dead; they didn’t know why her son had raced that night. She said that Tony and his wife had just gotten married.

It is a blur, but I kept thinking, “It was your son’s fault.” I just didn’t say it out loud. Then something happened because they hurried inside.

A white Camaro drove up and two young kids got out and went inside. They were with Maffeo’s mother. Mike went over and got the license plate number. He gave it to the security guard and then to the policeman. I went back in, got Jay and we all went up to the waiting room by surgery and ICU. Jay fell asleep in the lounge. I went back to the room and began waiting for Mike. The hospital chaplain came over and asked me if there was anyone he could call. I asked him to call Rev. Mark Key in High Point.

Reverend Key got there. Soon after, Dr. Martin came out of surgery. He told us that he had sewn a tear in Rich’s liver. His chances were not good. Rich was still losing a lot of blood. They paged Dr. Martin. I felt my heart sink.

Dr. Martin looked at us, then ran back into surgery. It was close to 2:25 a.m. when he returned.

He said: “He’s dying. Hurry.” The emptiness and sorrow that came over me were unbearable. It was a deep sadness that I had never felt before. Somewhere I would have to find the strength to say goodbye to Rich. I ran next to Dr. Martin.

“Dr. Martin, is he in pain? I don’t want him in any more pain.” Dr. Martin shook his head. He never answered me. Mark and Mike were behind us and I ran alongside Dr. Martin. He was saying, “He was given 15 units of blood, platelets, everything. There is too much trauma.” A nurse met us at the doctor at ICU and said, “He’s not ready.” Dr. Martin told her, “It’s OK. She’s already seen him.”

He hurried us into Rich’s room. I went over to Rich. “Why is his neck so swollen?” I asked. Dr. Martin explained that fluids were collecting in his tissues. I had no idea what he was talking about. I bent down to Rich’s ear and I said, “Rich, I love you. I’ll take care of Jason. Don’t worry. We’ll be together again, I promise. I’ll always love you. Rest, honey.” Again, all I could kiss and rub was my husband’s forehead. His forehead was colder than before. Dr. Martin went over to the ventilator and said, “I’m going to turn this down.”

There were so many tubes and bags of blood, all empty now. Mark said, “Denise, join me in prayer.” We stood holding hands. Mike, Mark and I prayed. Jay was asleep in the lounge. Mike was crying. I was numb. After praying I stood caressing Rich’s forehead while Dr. Martin turned the ventilator down more. Rich’s heartbeat on the monitor was slow and sporadic. Then the line went flat. I looked at the clock. It read 2:59 a.m.

I asked Mark, “Is Rich gone?” Mark replied, “I believe he is, Denise.” He looked like he was about to cry. Mark led us out of the room. I felt like I was leaving Rich behind and I wanted to go back to him. Yet, I knew it was over. (I know now from the death certificate that Rich actually died at 2:35 a.m.)

Dr. Martin was still there with us. He asked, “What will you be doing with the body?” I just shook my head. “I mean, which funeral home will his body be going to?” I just shook my head. “I mean, which funeral home will his body be going to?” I told him I didn’t know any funeral homes. Mark then said, “Is Cumby in High Point all right with you, Denise?” I nodded.

Outside or Rich’s room there was a police officer. He asked me some questions, but to this day I don’t remember what they were. I felt I wanted to run, to hide. I couldn’t breathe and I felt faint. There were so many questions running through my head. Some I said out loud. “How do I go on after being with Rich nearly half my life?” I knew I had said this question aloud. I heard myself. Then I said, “Mark, I don’t know how to do this. I need some air. I’ve got to tell Jay. I can’t think right now.”

In my head I was telling myself: You promised Rich. You’ve got to do this right. No matter what happens you promised Rich that you’d be all right and that you’d take care of Jay. Now do it and do it the way he would have. He isn’t here now and you cannot fall apart. I was outside again. I smoked and tried to pull myself together before I woke up Jay. I wasn’t crying. I didn’t feel I could.

“He’s only 12 years old. I’m so scared.” Again, I was thinking. But I must have said the thought out loud because I heard Mark say, “I’ll tell him.” I shook my head and said, “No, Mark, I have to.” He nodded. “I’ll stay with you.” We went back upstairs. Mike and Mark stayed in the waiting room and I went into the lounge to get Jay.

“Come on, honey.” He didn’t say a word. He just looked dazed and confused. I carried his sneakers with me and he sat in the chair in the waiting room and began putting them on. I bent down to my knees and looked him in the eye. I told him in as soft a voice as I could muster, trying not to let my voice crack, “Jay, Daddy didn’t make it. He died a little while ago.” He just stared at us. Then he got up, but he was not steady on his feet. I wondered if he was awake. We went down the stairs and a nurse rushed up to give me a bag with Rich’s belongings in it. It contained his walled, a $20 bill, his automatic teller card, a receipt from a cash withdrawal; his shoes and a pair of socks that I’m sure were put in the bag by accident. They were cut and had blood and tissue still on them.

Outside the hospital, Tony Maffeo’s mother saw us. She asked, “How’s your husband?” I stopped walking and turned around to face her. The two kids from the Camaro were with her as well as the man I had seen earlier. I stared at her, trying to think. Then I just said, “He died.” My voice cracked. Her face crumbled and she covered her mouth and said something I couldn’t hear for certain. I just stood there staring at them. The man came up to me and hugged me and then she did. Or maybe it was her and then him. I am not sure. I felt stiff. I couldn’t feel for them with any sensitivity. I felt drained. All I could think was: Your son killed my husband.

I looked at the two kids, a boy and a girl. They wouldn’t look back at me. They continued to look at the ground. I walked away. I said to myself (I thought), “I’m sorry. I’m trying, but right now I feel so angry.” Mark said to me, “It’s all right. So do I.” I realized I had spoken out loud again. Mike got into the driver’s seat and Jay in the back. We pulled away from the hospital, and I heard Jay crying. He cried, “Mom, I was so mean to Dad.” And he began to sob. “No Jay,” I said, “All sons and fathers argue. You and Dad loved each other. He knew it, now you know it.”

I guess I said the right thing because his crying seemed to stop, or maybe I stopped hearing him. As the three of us drove, we tried to figure out where we were. We made it, but I’m not sure how. We came into the apartment. Everything was dark. Jay said, “Mom, I’m so tired. Can I go to bed? Come with me and leave the lights on.” I tucked him in and he fell right to sleep. It scared me. I wondered if he was all right. I went to the kitchen and made coffee. Mike called Les in Connecticut, his twin brother, and told him. It was 4 a.m. Then I called Scott, Rich’s younger brother. He said, “Ah, Denise, please don’t tell me that.” He began to cry.

I went into Jay’s room and sat next to his bed while Mike went to get my friend Maryann Crawley to stay with me. I could hear him sleeping. He would screw up confusion. I sat there praying for the Lord to see us through this and to help me be strong for our little guy. “Mom?” Jay looked up with sleepy eyes. “I’m right here.” “Don’t leave me.” I assured him I was going to sit right there with him. I heard his soft breathing that told me he was asleep again. Maryann and Mike came in. I don’t know what she said, but the next thing I remember was the phone ringing and ringing, which it continued to do for days. I began to vomit and cough and choke. I thought my head would explode. Maryann was asking Mike if the doctor gave me anything to sleep or for nerves. He told her no. It was getting light out. She put a cold cloth to my head and we sat drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. The phone continued to ring. I wouldn’t answer it. Either Mike or Maryann did. Then people began knocking. I sat feeling frozen. I thought: This is all a nightmare, and I will wake up. God, please wake me up. Don’t let Rich be dead.

Thursday, May 27, 1993
It was early when my brother Beau came over. The phone was still ringing. It was the funeral home. Beau told me we had to make arrangements. Beau, Rich’s brother Scott and I went to Cumby’s. I picked out the casket. The man told me that the casket had to be wide because Rich had broad shoulders. I picked out the vault. I never knew you needed one. The final goodbye was going to be at the church, Covenant Methodist in High Point. Rich had been the audio technician for the church and I asked for someone to sing. Rich had liked that so much at the Sunday services. Family and friends would be able to come to the viewing Thursday night, then Friday morning would be family. There would be a church service Friday at 1 p.m. followed by burial at Guilford Memorial Park. We left Cumby’s and went to Guilford Memorial Park and I picked a family plot for Richard and me. We came back home.

I ironed Rich’s clothes for the final time. I picked out his favorite striped shirt, Beau picked out the tie, and I got out the lamb’s wool jacket that I had liked on him so much. We had bought that jacket five years before. He never liked to shop for himself. A pair of brown pants and brown socks made it complete. Beau and I brought the clothes into Cumby’s. I also had made sure that they had Rich’s wedding ring, watch and the silver cross that he always wore. I was thinking that I wished Rich had gotten the watch that we had looked at the week before. He thought it was too expensive. I was going to get it for him on Fathers Day. Now I couldn’t.

On the way home Beau said, “Dee, you have to find an attorney and it needs to be done now.” Back at home, he went through the phone book and placed a call. We got back into the car and he looked at me, “Hon, I hate for you to have to go through this, but it has to be done.” We arrived at Lawrence Egerton’s office. Mr. Egerton asked me, “What can I do to help you?” I replied, “Make sure Tony Maffeo is punished. He killed Rich. Can you try to find the other Camaro?” He told me then that he would see if he couldn’t get a second-degree murder charge against Maffeo. And he would also hire a private investigator to find the other driver.

Beau and I left his office and went to Kmart for clothes for Jay and myself. We had nothing to wear to a funeral. Beau picked everything out for me. The viewing was difficult. Rich’s neck on the left side was still swollen like it was on Wednesday morning. He didn’t look like the man I knew. The nightmares began that night. I see Rich trapped in the car, screaming for someone to please help him. I dream of the hospital and that damn ventilator hissing. I wake up sweating; crying and wishing this would all go away.

words from copy252.... still to this day i cant finish reading this. Thats y when ppl start talking about STREET RACING my mind go's into "FUCK THAT" over drive. Hopefully yall understand and dont take me as an asshole. Thanks for reading

 

Man, I'm sorry about your parents. I lost my Dad when I was 6 but that doesnt even compare to what you went through. yes i have raced illegally at one point in my life, but grew out of that very quickly!

As far as the speeding issue, I would definitely fight that drag racing part of it. You DO NOT want that on your record! If you were speeding then so be it, but the drag racing part I would fight.

Just my

 

me and my boy were driving through traffic, going with the flow of traffic. The only difference is that we were passing cars but not at rediculous speeds. My boy was cut off and lost control of his car causing him to end up in the median. No damage was caused to anyones car or his own. I guess the people that saw it called the cops and one guy that pulled over said that we were racing. Because of his claim wreckless driving tickets and racing on highway tickets were given out.

 

sorry to hear about your Dad man, I would never wish that upon anyone.

 

its things like that that make it hard to stand up and walk away without finishing the story, life is looked at in a whole new way when you read that and street racing isn't so much a thrill anymore with that in the back of your mind.

 

That story made me want to crawl under my desk. I can almost feel the sadness in the words.

 

thats my point in posting this. I dont fault anyone for doing it. i to have seen myself speeding up sometime next to a car and then i think "WTF AM I THINKING!!!!" i was a little hot headed in the post saying someone should kill parents and shit so leave that out. Just next time you come to the descision of racing or not. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE!!!!! choose not to. some 12 yr old whos already losing his mother to cancer might lose his dad becuase of that wrong descision

 

maybe these pics will help the sadness a little more (not trying to be an asshole) they will most likely show ppl to NOT RACE and look at the car. top one was my dads.... bottom is the camaro. ITS A VOVLO MY DAD WAS IN!!! THE SAFEST CRASH CAR FOR ALL 1993 MAKES!!!! thats how fast they were going... to do that







also please forgive for turning this into a "not race" thread. that was wrong of me but i hear racing i go into PREACH mode. lol. i think yall can understand. but if you were not racing tell yur side and see what happens i guess. its all u can do!

 

Georgia in general is a pretty corrupt state. If the troopers think they can make money at it, they'll pile on the tickets. Their favorite thing is to threaten you with a reckless driving ticket, which is abused by the popo in my opinion. Especially if you're from out of state or have an urban county on your tag and you get pulled over in hicksville. Go to court and fight it, I doubt the idiot guy that claimed you were racing will show up and then the trooper has no case.

 

man sorry to hear that,dosen't take much to fuck up someones life,i hope you're doing better.

 

You aren't the only Acurazine member to suffer immeasurable tragedy at the hands of street racers. This story is certainly enough to make you think. It's hard to read and see the photos, but we're all probably better people for reading it.

 

lets get back on topic here boys. this isnt about preaching about street racing, its about Georgia street racing laws

 

like i said ealier.... sorry for going into preach mode. my views are if your caught street racing or doing anything that can be considered street racing.... you should be arrested and charged with something along the lines of "risk of injury", be made to complete a LONG driving seminar that shows things like "MY LIFE" and only given the PRIVELEDGE of driving during school/work hours (say 6am-9pm or to fit the person) i dont say all these harsh stiff peneltys to hurt but more like to let the perp learn why this act of "fuck you i own this road" childish crap WILL NOT BE LET GO LIGHTLY

 

i agree... if u trully werent... fight it. i know i would. plus like this person said.... the asshole u lied prolly wont show up for court and your safe! if you were in CT tho the person would have to show up... or theyed be in court for failure to appear

 

I agree I have been stupid and raced some people on the street. It doesn't prove anything and it's dangerous. I've decided to stop for my own sake and others. I say keep it on the strip. As far as the thread issue, I think you can get off with speeding because unless the cop saw you going wide open with another car trying to match your speeds. Ask to review the cops tape and what he has recorded on his camera unless your car is on the tape clearly racing then you should be good. A street racing charge I think you either get your liscence taken or major points off like 8 or so. You have to file Sr-22 with your insurance and your insurance rates go through the roof for like 3 years or so. I think also you have to take driving school and retake the driver's test to get your liscence back if they let you.

 

Cops in GA are assholes. I let my brother borrow the TL and he got pulled over by a cop. The first thing that he asked is what year the car in and he was giving him all this BS that its a pretty expensive car for someone his age. The cop told him that it took him a while to catch up to him so he wrote 80+ on the ticket even though he didnt have him on radar or anything.

 

all cops are assholes.... its a requirement for the job... didnt u know this MAN!?!?!?!?!?!?

 

for the record, we were NOT racing.. we were just following each other back to florida from GA. Just because our cars look nice and we were passing people in a normal highway driving fasion this guy snitches and says we were racing...

 

I so agree with copy252, cops are just assholes that abuse their authority.