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WINSTON-SALEM — Tolly Carr, you said you were sorry Monday.

You stood in court, all handsome in your sharp, three-button grey suit. You choked back tears. You apologized to your family. You apologized to the family of Casey Bokhoven. You even said you wished you had died instead of him.

You had so much promise. You were a morning TV news anchor, a role model, one of our so-called celebrities. You moderated spelling bees, taught at your college alma mater and became a father figure to your little brother, a student at GTCC.

And in 30 seconds, after a night of drinking in early March, you lost it all.

You could've hailed a cab. You didn't. You drove your Ford F150 pickup. Thirty seconds later, you turned it into a two-ton missile that barreled down a barricaded road at 50 mph in Winston-Salem's historic West End neighborhood.

You nearly killed a good friend. She was your passenger. But you killed a 26-year-old stranger. And you know, he had so much promise, too.

He had found his love: cooking. He worked as a chef at Forsyth Country Club. But he had been accepted to the Harvard of cooking — the Culinary Institute of America in New York — and he was getting ready to leave this month.

That won't happen, though. And now, Tolly Carr, you're going to jail.

On Monday, a judge sentenced you to prison for killing Casey Bokhoven.

"I thought about what Casey's life was worth, and the saddest part about it was Casey's life was worth a $10 cab ride," Sean Bokhoven, 33, Casey's only brother, told the packed courtroom Monday in downtown Winston-Salem.

"A $10 cab ride, and my brother would've been here with me."

Sean's right. Tolly Carr, you've got responsibility in you. You're 33, an example of your mother's drive. She was 18, and while she went to college, you were raised by your grandmother in Sampson County.

Like your mother, you went to college, too: Winston-Salem State. Seven years ago, you joined WXII. You rose through the ranks. You became the affiliate's new rising star as its morning co-anchor.

But on March 11, a Saturday night when we turned our clocks forward an hour, you turned your back on responsibility and partied hard with your cousin, Robert "Fuzz"' Lee, and two colleagues from WXII, Fjola Ingvadottir Wilson and reporter Nicole Ducoueur.

You did the classic pub crawl in downtown Winston-Salem: Mellow Mushroom, to Speakeasy Jazz, to Sixth and Vine, to Sounds on Burke to Burke Street Pub.

Wilson saw you drink four beers, two martinis and a glass of wine.

A report released Monday in court from the forensic toxicologist put it more at 17 "standard drinks."

Either way you look at it, you drove drunk.

Down West First Street. Through three barricades. Through a mound of gravel. You see, the street was closed. Then, you lost control of your truck. You went airborne for nearly 30 feet, cleared a two-foot retention wall and hit Bokhoven going 30 mph.

You dragged him at least 20 feet before you slammed into a set of brick steps.

It was 3:40 a.m. In 30 seconds, your life turned tragic.

Wilson ended up with a slew of injuries, including a broken shoulder. Bokhoven was broken all over, tire tracks across his stomach. And you say you never saw him. Yet, you hit him so hard you knocked him out of his shoes.

"I keep thinking of how his family will hug him and say goodbye," Sean Bokhoven told the court Monday. "We can never say goodbye. My brother died alone underneath your right rear truck tire."

You have been remorseful, Tolly Carr. You said so in court. You spent a month in a rehabilitation center, and the day you got out, you went straight to the Forsyth County Jail. You were there Monday.

You spent 116 days, 22 hours a day, in a small jail cell. Now, once you get out of prison in two years, you'll pay the public schools $10,000 in restitution, and you'll spend at least 100 hours doing community service.

And you'll talk to school students — right here in Guilford County — about the dangers of drinking and driving.

You have a story to tell, about the danger of those 30 seconds, the irresponsibility of drunken invincibility, a night that went horribly, horribly wrong.

But is that enough?

Contact Jeri Rowe at 373-7374 or jrowe@news-record.com.