Nov 12, 2021, was the worst night of my life. If you haven’t read my original account—penned just three months after that harrowing drive-by ambush on Polk Street in Little Rock’s Heights neighborhood — it’s linked here. In short: My boyfriend (now husband ) Ryan and I were caught in a barrage of 30 shots as we tried to make our way home from dinner with friends. Eighteen bullets riddled our car. We ducked, we prayed, we accelerated into the night with shattered glass raining around us. By some miracle, we emerged unscathed — save for a grazing wound on my scalp and the invisible scars that have reshaped our world ever since.
Tomorrow marks four years since that Friday night etched itself into our souls. Four years of therapy, nights jolted awake by phantom gunfire, of second-guessing every shadow in a parking lot or every unfamiliar car trailing too close on the highway. We’ve poured thousands into healing — medication, counseling, retreats to remote cabins in hopes of outrunning the memories. And yet, the trauma lingers like a stubborn fog, a psychological echo that no amount of “business as usual” can dispel. There’s the Heather before Nov. 12, and the Heather after — a divide as real as any bullet hole in that mangled BMW.
But this isn’t just a retelling of survival; it’s an update on a case that refuses to fade into resolution. And a plea: We deserve answers. Little Rock deserves justice.
The Case That Went Cold
In the immediate aftermath, the Little Rock Police Department moved swiftly. They recovered all 30 shell casings from the scene, pulled 18 bullets from our vehicle, found a scope discarded on the ground, and — most crucially — retrieved both weapons used in the attack. DNA evidence was collected. This wasn’t some shadowy alley skirmish; it unfolded in broad view on a bustling street, right next to the Kroger on Polk, in one of the city’s most affluent pockets. Surely, someone saw something. Ring doorbells, traffic cams, passersby — incredibly, no usable video footage has surfaced to crack it open.
The investigation went cold. Leads dried up. Whispers from those in the know suggested it was sidelined, perhaps because we lived, our story not ending in tragedy like so many others that year. How many more victims have suffered in the four years since, at the hands of perpetrators who walked free that night? It’s a chilling thought, one that Ryan and I grapple with in our quieter moments. Why us? Was it random road rage from that SUV’s eerie U-turn? A case of mistaken identity? We still don’t know and neither, it seems, does anyone else.
Hope flickered earlier this year when Arkansas Attorney General Tim Griffin pulled the file into his office. A dedicated detective has since breathed new life into it, inching closer to breakthroughs despite hurdles from the original probe — missed opportunities, perhaps, or overlooked evidence buried under the weight of a surging caseload. They’ve come “way closer,” sources tell us, but obstacles persist. Progress, yes, but no arrests. No closure.
People ask us all the time: “Do they know who did it? Why did this happen?” Our answer remains the same gut-wrenching refrain: We don’t know. And that void? It’s maddening. It’s why we’re sharing this now. Little Rock Police Department, if you’re listening, this is a big deal. It happened in the open, on a street lined with homes and headlights. It could have been anyone — you, your family, driving home after a long week. Prioritize it. Solve it. Before another anniversary ticks by unanswered.
A City Healing, But Scars Remain
Little Rock’s crime landscape has shifted since I first wrote about the post-pandemic surge that turned our city into a statistic I never wanted to join. Back in early 2022, violent crime was up 21% year-over-year, with homicides climbing and a baby’s life cut short in the crossfire. Officials declared a public health emergency, a desperate cry amid the chaos. (From my original piece, yes — but the numbers feel like a numb echo of Groundhog Day shootings every weekend.)
Fast-forward to 2025, and there’s cautious optimism. Through the first half of the year, overall crime dropped compared to the five-year average, with violent incidents down from 2024 alone. Homicides remain a stubborn outlier — up slightly in some tallies — but the trend is toward safer streets. It’s progress I celebrate from afar, even as it underscores the irony: The city mends, but our personal wounds fester without justice.
That untreated trauma? It’s the silent fuel for cycles of violence. Arkansas still ranks near the bottom nationally for mental health access and crime reparations — programs like the state’s Crime Victims Reparations Board, which we qualified for but waited months (and spent thousands out-of-pocket) to tap. Poverty, marginalization, unaddressed pain — they all intertwine. We’ve seen glimmers of systemic fixes: Voters rejected a 2021 bond for parks and safety infrastructure, but recent investments in youth programs and violence interruption show we’re learning. Still, it’s not enough until every victim gets swift support and every shooter faces the light of day.
Everyday heroes fill the gaps. Shout out again to Women’s Own Worth, whose housing aid, financial lifelines and recovery plans have been our North Star. (And yes, they help everyone touched by violence, not just women.)
Still Here, Still Fighting
Four years on, Ryan and I aren’t the same — but we’re here. That grazing bullet? A reminder we’re survivors with purpose. We’ve channeled it into advocacy, speaking at community forums, pushing for better victim services, urging folks to report the odd U-turn or suspicious tail. Civic duty starts with “If you see something, say something.” Therapy continues, as does our resolve to build a Little Rock where nights out end in laughter, not 911 calls.
This story doesn’t wrap with handcuffs or a tidy bow, but survival is the happy ending I cling to. If God’s got me here for a reason, it’s to amplify this: Demand better. For us. For the next couple whipping around a corner, hearts pounding.
If you have tips on the Polk Street shooting — footage from that night, a silver SUV that doesn’t sit right, anything — call the tip line at (501) 371-4829. Anonymous is fine; denied justice isn’t.
