• Tragedy looms when OUI becomes a way of life
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• 1996 OUI arrests in Maine
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Pat LaMarche, former radio talk-show host, waits for instructions as she checks into the Cumberland County Jail to serve time for an OUI conviction. Besides losing her job, she is burdened with a heavy sense of shame and humiliation. She frets about her two children and whether they'll think less of her. Staff photo by David A. Rodgers

For most of her 36 years, Pat LaMarche considered herself a good citizen.

She baked bread for homeless shelters, worked with terminally ill children and used her celebrity status as one of Maine's most popular radio talk-show hosts to help raise money for charities.

But since a Yarmouth police officer pulled her car over on May 16, she has a new identity. Now, she's a drunken driver.

''I feel that all the good I've done has been overshadowed,'' LaMarche says. ''I'm a villain instead of a hero. When people look at me they think, 'Drunk driver.' When my name is printed in the paper now, it's, 'Pat LaMarche, the drunk driver.' ''

Since her OUI arrest, LaMarche's comfortable life has tailspinned into uncertainty. Before that night, she was a well-known WGAN morning talk-show personality with 85,000 listeners. She stirred debate on the airwaves with her liberal philosophy and unbridled opinions. She dreamed of becoming the ''media queen of Maine.''

Her lofty aspirations have been put on hold. After the arrest, she lost her job. Instead of voicing her opinion each morning to thousands, LaMarche is selling books part-time and is struggling to pay the rent.

And besides the economic hardship, LaMarche is left with a heavy sense of shame and humiliation. She frets about her two young children and whether they'll think less of her because she acted recklessly one Friday night.

She worries about friends and acquaintances who have been reluctant to talk about her arrest. She believes some of them think she's a drunk.

''Which I'm not,'' she says. ''I did something really stupid. The thought of even having a beer or glass of wine now makes me sick to my stomach.''

Before she lost her job, LaMarche decided to talk about her mistake and drunken driving during one of her last shows. Though most of the callers were supportive, LaMarche has also reaped the scorn of strangers.

The next time you drive drunk, I hope you die, said one letter she received.

Before she left the radio station, several listeners admonished her on the airwaves.

I'm glad my children weren't walking the streets when you were driving drunk.

What kind of mother are you?, callers wanted to know.

''Driving drunk is like the scarlet letter of the '90s,'' LaMarche says. ''It's beyond stupidity. It's a huge stigma.''

For LaMarche, the humiliation and punishment were just beginning when she made her arrest public.

She lost her license for 90 days, spent four days in jail, was ordered to serve 167 hours of community service and pay $425 to attend a weekend drunken-driving school.

She hasn't been able to find another radio or television job. She can't get by on her part-time book-store paycheck, so she relies on family and friends to loan her money to pay the bills.

If she can't find a better job, there's a chance she'll have to uproot her two children and leave the state.

''It's remarkable that one night of foolishness could do all this,'' LaMarche says.

LaMarche's arrest has frightened some of her friends. ''That could have been me,'' they've told her.

And plenty of others have confessed to LaMarche that they, too, have been arrested for driving drunk.

''It's like a club of people that have been humiliated and it's their deepest, darkest secret,'' LaMarche says.

The night LaMarche was arrested, she was in Portland drinking martinis with friends. She had two drinks on an empty stomach and took a long walk around the city before getting in her car to drive home.

She was about 100 yards from her parking space inside her Yarmouth apartment complex when she glimpsed blue lights reflected in her rearview mirror.

The officer had followed LaMarche after he noticed her weaving on East Main Street. As the uniformed silhouette approached her window, LaMarche thought: ''Oh God. I'm going to lose my job.''

''Have you been drinking, Patricia?'' the officer asked, smelling alcohol on her breath as he read her license.

''Yes, two martinis,'' she answered.

As she got out of her car to do a sobriety test, she thought: ''This is crazy. You drank and you drove and now you've got to pay the consequences.''

LaMarche was driven to the police station and was fingerprinted. Her mug shot was taken.

''It was awful,'' she remembers.

LaMarche refused to take the breath test.

''I was scared,'' she says.

LaMarche dreaded telling her 10-year-old son, John, and her 11-year-old daughter, Becky, what she'd done.

She had often talked to them about doing what is right and moral, and encouraged them to be candid with their opinions.

Now, she worried about losing their respect.

Mostly, her children were relieved she was not hurt.

Her daughter wanted to know: ''You're not going to be able to drive?''

Her son worried about what his friends would say. Would they tease him and call his mother a drunk?

For the next few days, LaMarche felt nauseous, weak and dizzy. There were people she was too embarrassed to tell about her arrest, like her best friend.

Pat LaMarche served four days for operating a vehicle while under the influence of alcohol. Since her arrest, her life has gone into a tailspin of uncertainty. Staff photo by Jack Milton

''I really felt shamed, afraid of what people were going to think,'' LaMarche says.

She thought it best to resign from a job where she routinely criticized cowards, hypocrites and amoral politicians. When she changed her mind about leaving the show, her boss refused to rescind her resignation.

''Basically I was fired,'' she says.

Three weeks later, LaMarche sat in Cumberland County District Court with her mother, waiting for her OUI case to be heard.

LaMarche never bothered to get an attorney because she had no plans to dispute the charge. She drove drunk and would deal with the punishment.

It was likely, she reasoned, that because she was a first-time offender, she'd lose her license for 90 days and be ordered to volunteer in the community for several months.

What she didn't know is that drivers who are charged with OUI and refuse to take a breath test receive stiffer penalties if they're convicted.

LaMarche got four days in jail, an $825 fine - which she later got changed to community service - and was ordered to take a $425 weekend drunken-driving class. ''I'm shellshocked,'' LaMarche said moments later outside the courthouse.

Her mother, Genevieve LaMarche, stood by her daughter's side, her brow wrinkled in concern, listening to her daughter answer a television reporter's questions about her punishment.

''I drove drunk and it was stupid,'' LaMarche said, staring into the camera.

Her mother watched the interview and spoke in a soft voice: ''When she told me about her arrest, I was glad no one was hurt. She's such a good kid and I hate what happened to Pat but,'' LaMarche paused briefly before adding: ''But somebody's got to do something about drunk driving. When you think about that horrible crash at (Exit) 6A where that mother and daughter were killed . . .''

Her voice trailed off and she glanced at her daughter again.

''I don't know what else to say,'' she finished.

Five months have passed since LaMarche spotted those blue lights in her rearview mirror. It's not the memories of court or even the four days she spent in jail that haunt her.

It's the lack of a good-paying job and the possibility she'll have to move her children to another state if she doesn't find work here soon.

And there is that sense of shame that still shrouds her life like a dark cloud. Though her children have been supportive, LaMarche worries how they'll look back on the summer of 1997.

''I wonder what my kids will think of a mother who doesn't have a job and can't take care of them,'' she says. ''I wonder if they'll remember that was the year mom messed up and all we did was walk. I worry they'll feel I let them down.''

And she is concerned about how her friends and strangers will treat her after a year or two has passed. Will they still think she's a drunk? An irresponsible driver?

When she does get her license back it will have a hole punched in it, an indication that she's been convicted of drunken driving. Her license will remain marked with the OUI symbol for 10 years.

''When I cash a check, rent a video, there will be people who will know that I've been convicted,'' LaMarche says. ''It's like having a scarlet letter on your chest for a long time.''