Betrayed: Powerful Stories of Kick-Ass Crime Survivors

by Allison Brennan

  And appearances matter. My father taught me that. A high-powered lawyer, even-tempered to the world, and a nightmare behind closed doors.

  I don’t know what happened this time. I don’t know how my brother got the gun or how he caught my father unaware. All I know is the blast of the gunshot that woke me, sent me flying down the stairs, to find Noah standing here, my father already dead.

  I can’t turn back time and do a better job of protecting my little brother. All I can do is try to save him now.

  “Go upstairs and call 911,” I tell Noah, resolute. “And no matter what happens after this, stick to the story.”

  # # #

  MIRROR, MIRROR

  By Allison Brennan

  Chapter One

  Detective Jackie Regan had worked twelve hours with a single thirty-minute lunch break, and all she wanted now was to go home, sink into a bubble bath with a tall glass of chilled chardonnay, and rinse off the funk and her bad mood before Rick came over. They both had tomorrow off—a rarity for a cop and a trauma nurse—and she planned to use every minute of their time together to forget the crap cases she had to deal with this week.

  Bubble bath. Wine. Sex. Sleep. Eat. Repeat.

  Then the call came in.

  Not just any call: a cop’s worst nightmare.

  Officer down.

  Chris Medina, her long-time partner in the Special Crimes unit of the Sacramento County Sheriff’s Department, tossed Jackie the keys to their unmarked vehicle. “Who?” she asked as they rushed out.

  “Don’t know,” he answered. “Only that two deputies responded to a domestic disturbance.” He spoke quietly in Spanish, and she knew he was saying a prayer. She wasn’t one to pray—hadn’t done her any good as a kid, why start now?

  “Where?”

  “Perrin Way.”

  Jackie’s stomach sank. “We know that street.”

  He nodded. “It’s the Becker house. That’s why we’re going.”

  Jackie kicked her desk as they walked out. Damn fucking Beckers. Again.

  You did everything you could, Jack. You can’t force Marla Becker to leave her husband.

  Why the hell not? Why couldn’t she drag her kicking and screaming from her house? Why couldn’t Jackie knock sense into her? Marla had a kid, dammit. A six-year-old daughter who lived with that brute.

  Don’t go down that path.

  It never ended well.

  Jackie jumped into the sedan and Chris had barely closed his door when she peeled out of the parking lot. It was night, cold and windy, but the rain hadn’t started yet.

  It would. Just a matter of time. And then Jackie’s dark mood would be complete.

  Chris monitored the radio while reading messages on his phone. “It’s Dominguez. Becker ran him over with his truck.”

  “Ran him over? How the hell?”

  “I don’t know. That’s just the word. Dominguez and Shepherd were responding to another domestic call.”

  “And Marla Becker?”

  “She’s alive. That’s all I have.”

  Jackie drove fast, flashing the grill lights whenever she came up behind another car. Fortunately, most people had the sense to go home early when the weather was about to turn bad like this. Her anger built, a slow burn that was almost comforting in its familiarity. Her anger was there to combat the fear, the two emotions so entwined in her psyche that she wouldn’t know what to do without them. There had never been a day in her life she hadn’t felt both, but her control was legendary—at least in her own mind. She was the only one who really understood how much effort it took to keep her temper in check.

  It helped having Chris as her partner. He was a saint, a good Catholic kid who married his high school sweetheart and had 2.5 kids—literally. Two walking around, one cooking in the so-called oven.

  “Maybe we can finally talk sense into her,” Chris said.

  Jackie couldn’t hide her skepticism. “Because Marla listened so well the first three times we spoke to her.”

  “She’s close,” Chris said. “This could be her wake-up call.”

  The Beckers were repeat customers. After three calls for domestic disturbance, their case had been referred out to the special crimes unit for investigation. Jackie felt more like a damn marriage counselor than a cop. In concept, the program was sound—as special crimes detectives they had specialized training in many areas, such as sexual assault and domestic violence. She and Chris had a good yin-yang approach, with her usually being the hard ass and Chris being kind and soft-spoken. But both of them were really good at reading a situation and working it for a positive outcome. Sometimes Jackie and Chris could talk an abuse victim into leaving. There were resources in place to keep them safe: shelter, counseling, daycare, and job referrals.

  But no one could force an abused person to leave a dangerous situation. That’s where the investigation angle helped. If the cops could find another reason to arrest the abuser and get him out of the house, then they could work on the victim without the overpowering influence of the abuser. Drug charges, drunk driving, assault—anything to give the vic time and space to really think about their options and life choices. Jackie and Chris had once tailed a predator every night for a week, then pulled him over for drunk driving. It was his second charge, and they were able to get the maximum sentence because his BAC was twice the legal limit. That gave his wife six months to get her life together. She got a restraining order, moved to an undisclosed location, and divorced the bastard. That time the program had worked exactly as intended.

  But all too often victims of abuse wouldn’t get help, wouldn’t fight for themselves. They’d been convinced by their abuser that they deserved whatever was doled out to them. Some denied the abuse; others justified it.

  The time commitment was huge, and they also had other cases to work. Sometimes Jackie felt like damn Don Quixote, and every house like the Beckers’ was a windmill she’d never take down.

  Chris had been texting for the last five minutes. “Telling Sophia you’re going to be late, or word on Dom?” Jackie asked.

  “Both. Sophia knows the drill. It’s not the first time I’ve missed dinner. Shep said Dom’s en route to the hospital. He’s fine, bruises, nothing appears broken, but they’re doing X-rays and he probably has a concussion. It could have been much worse.”

  “We can get Becker on assaulting a police officer. He’ll do time.”

  “Yep.” Chris glanced at her. “You good?”

  “I’m always good.”

  “Just saying, that steering wheel looks like it’s going to crack under that death grip of yours.”

  Jackie forced her fists to unclench and took a deep breath. “I’m okay,” she said. “Just—what if that prick had really hurt Dom? What if he’d had a gun? Took a shot at two cops? You know about Tony.” Her mother’s second husband was in prison for manslaughter after beating her mom in a drunken rage, after which he’d jumped back into his car and headed back to the bar he’d just left. That’s when he killed an old man walking his dog on the sidewalk. Jackie had been a rookie cop at the time and during the trial had seen the crime scene photos. The large mutt had survived, laying down next to his owner until the man’s corpse was taken to the morgue. One of the first responders had adopted the animal.

  “I’d tell you what I always tell you, if I thought you’d listen,” said Chris.

  “You can’t save people who don’t want to be saved.”

  “You do listen,” Chris said with mock surprise.

  “I just don’t see how you can be so fucking calm all the time.”

  “I do everything in my power to help people, but in the end, the most important thing is going home in one piece to my family. I leave the job behind in the locker room. Pick it back up the next morning. You’ve never been able to leave the job at work.”

  “I was born a cop.”

  She pulled up in front of the Becker house on Perrin Way in Carmichael, an older suburb. The house was a 1970s-style ranc
h. The neighborhood was quiet, off the main roads, and most houses in this neighborhood were well-maintained. Half of them already had their Christmas lights up, and two houses, kitty corner to each other, were fully decked out with reindeer, a giant Santa that was being whipped around by the increasing wind, and one had an elaborate nativity scene. Jackie supposed it wasn’t early—Thanksgiving was a week ago, and lots of people put up Christmas decorations after Thanksgiving. But it had never been part of Jackie’s childhood, and she’d never gotten into the habit once she had her own place.

  The Beckers’ yard was relatively neat, but tired, as if there’d been some effort to mow—but weeds sprouted tall around the perimeter. Flowers were dead or dying in the beds—perennials. They would come back Jackie supposed, but no one seemed to care that they were sagging. A lit wreath hung on their door with a garland and bows draped around the porch railing in a nod to the upcoming holiday, but one strand of lights was out, making the small display appear lopsided.

  But Marla Becker had tried, Jackie supposed—tried to do something for her daughter in a time of Santa Claus and Christmas carols and hope.

  False hope, Jackie thought. Because in families like the Beckers, nothing would change until someone snapped.

  The ambulance was gone, and Dom’s partner had followed, leaving two additional sheriff’s units parked in front. One of the uniforms approached Jackie and Chris after they pulled up and said, “Two uniforms are inside with permission from the wife. Marla Becker’s story is that her husband hit Officer Dominguez by accident. She has a swollen eye and is nursing her wrist, but she practically had a nervous breakdown when the paramedic wanted to look at her. She refused treatment. There’s an APB out on Carlo Becker.”

  “Where’s her kid?” Jackie asked.

  “According to her mother, she was asleep at the time of the assault.”

  “A six-year-old asleep before eight at night?” Jackie had no idea if that was common for young kids.

  “She’s with her mother now, healthy, no visible injuries.”

  Jackie didn’t think that Carlo had taken a hand to his daughter—yet. Some abusers never touched their kids. Others took turns, beating one instead of the other. Jackie knew that drill all too well. She was the older sister, the one with a sassy mouth, the one who had stood up to her father, and she’d paid for it when her mother wasn’t around to take his beatings.

  “Jackie, why can’t you just leave well enough alone?” her mom would say. “Just be a good girl like Melissa. Be quiet. Do what he says and everything will be just fine.”

  Jackie rubbed the back of her neck to ease the tension that came with memories. Nothing had ever been fine in the Regan house.

  “What happened?” Chris asked. “Who made the call?”

  “A neighbor called it in. Domestic disturbance, shouting. The address was flagged.” Flagged because the Beckers were repeat customers. “Dom was here first,” the officer continued. “Shepherd arrived right after.” Most deputies rode single, but when dealing with a potentially volatile situation, responding officers would wait for a second officer to arrive on scene before engaging. “They’d just gotten out of their vehicles when the Beckers’ garage door opened and a late-model Ford pickup backed out. Shepherd identified himself, asked the driver to stop and exit the vehicle. Carlo Becker stopped for a moment and Dom went around to the driver’s side while Shepherd observed from the passenger side. But Becker suddenly gunned his vehicle and backed out, clipping Dom. He went down, whacked his head on the sidewalk. Don’t have word yet on his condition, but his lieutenant is heading to the hospital now.”

  “Thanks—we’ll talk to Marla. Did she say anything to you?” Sometimes, victims and suspects changed their story. Domestic violence victims in particular often accused their abuser initially, but would later back away from the allegations. If Jackie and Chris could get a sworn statement from Marla Becker, even if she changed her mind later, it might help keep Carlo away from the family. That didn’t always work. The courts usually wanted to hear directly from the victim. But if there was another eyewitness, there was precedence for prosecuting, even if the victim recanted. Especially when they had a solid, tough-on-crime D.A. like Elliott, who had made it his mission not to look the other way even in difficult-to-prosecute cases like DV.

  “Marla Becker was standing on her porch, agitated, worried about Dom when we arrived. All she said to us is that it must have been an accident, that her husband hadn’t seen Dom in the driveway.” The deputy clearly didn’t believe her.

  Jackie and Chris walked up to the house and entered through the front door. Two deputies stood in the living room. “Are you sure you don’t want coffee?” Marla Becker asked. When she saw Jackie and Chris, her bottom lip quivered. “Detectives—how is your deputy? What a terrible accident, just awful.”

  “He’s on his way to the hospital,” Jackie said. She wasn’t going to give Marla Becker any relief, not now. She was clearly worried about the cop, and not just because she was concerned about what might happen to her husband—though that was likely part of it. Still, if Jackie could play off her sympathy for Deputy Dominguez, she might be able to convince Marla to leave before her husband returned.

  Marla Becker was thirty-five. She and Carlo had been married for ten years. It was a second marriage for both of them. There’d been no reports filed that Marla’s first husband had been abusive, but Jackie knew that abused women often went from one bad relationship to another. From what she’d been able to get out of Marla during the first three visits was that her first husband yelled a lot and drank too much. She made excuses for the bruises. An accident. He didn’t mean to. She tripped. Marla was skittish and nervous, classic signs of abuse, but maybe she had started to believe all her lies.

  DV victims were damn good at lying to themselves.

  There had been multiple police calls from the house of Carlo Becker and his first wife, who finally had the good sense to leave him after three years of marriage. She was lucky she could still walk out. Yet—she’d never pressed charges. Never accused him of anything, even though she had a long list of emergency room visits during their marriage.

  Just like Marla Becker.

  “Sit down, Marla,” Jackie said. She glanced over to where six-year-old Lizzy sat at the dining room table, coloring. She wore princess pajamas.

  Marla dropped down onto the couch, her hands clenched tight in her lap. “This was just an accident. Carlo would never hurt anyone.”

  “Can I get you anything, Mrs. Becker?” Chris asked. “Water? Coffee?”

  Chris was playing the good cop, and right now Jackie wanted to slap Marla for being such a whiny, enabling victim. She hated herself for that urge. Her fists clenched and unclenched. Chris could be the nice cop; Jackie needed to get Marla to listen.

  One of her eyes was almost swollen shut. An ice pack was on the table, likely from the paramedic’s supplies. There were bruises on her left arm in the shape of fingers—Carlo’s, almost certainly.

  “Marla,” Jackie said firmly, but quietly. She didn’t think Lizzy could hear, but the girl was six. She had to know what her father did to her mother. Jackie had known, but for a long time didn’t talk about it. Couldn’t. She’d been scared and ashamed of her family. When she’d been hit, she just took it. Jackie knew she was stronger than her younger sister, Melissa. Jackie could take the belt. But her mother got the fists.

  “Detective Medina and I were here just last month,” Jackie said.

  “That was a misunderstanding.” Marla averted her eyes. Cast them down to her hands that were clasped in her lap. Her fingernails were bitten to the quick, and the way she clutched her fingers told Jackie that she was desperately trying not to bite them now.

  “It wasn’t a misunderstanding. Carlo was yelling, and you were yelling, and your neighbors like a quiet, safe neighborhood for their kids. You want a safe house for your daughter, don’t you? Your neighbors know, I know, and these deputies all know that your husband, Carl
o, hits you. He gave that black eye.”

  Marla shook her head. “N-no.”

  “You’re lying.”

  Marla didn’t say anything. Her right thumb made its way to her teeth and she chewed on the nail for two seconds before realizing what she’d done and quickly put her hands down again.

  “You’re need to listen to us, Marla. Carlo crossed the line.” He’d crossed it the first time he raised a hand to his wife, but Marla would never believe it, so Jackie used what she could work with. “He hit a law enforcement officer with his vehicle when the officer was in the process of doing his job. Assaulting a deputy is a felony.”

  “It was an accident!” She was almost shouting, then glanced over to where Lizzy had her head down at the dining room table coloring, her bright pink pajamas out of place in the dark house. Marla cleared her throat and lowered her voice. “It was dark. Carlo didn’t see Officer Dominguez.”

  “Did you actually see what happened?”

  “N-no, I was in the house, putting Lizzy to bed, but I know Carlo. He would never do anything like that.”

  A fantasy version of Carlo Becker. How could black-eyed Marla possibly sit there and say he wouldn’t hurt anyone—anyone except her? Marla was so much like Jackie’s mother—Jackie had to take a deep breath.

  Chris was right. This was hitting too damn close to home.

  Chris said in his calm, good-cop voice, “Mrs. Becker, it’s clear from the reports that your husband saw the two deputies and left the scene to avoid being questioned. Maybe it was an accident—maybe he didn’t mean to hit Deputy Dominguez. But he fled the scene. That doesn’t look good. Tell us where he might have gone. You can help him by helping us.”

  “You don’t understand. Detective, please, you can’t do this to my family. He’s my husband. He needs me. What marriage is perfect? We have ups and downs like everyone.”

  Jackie was getting tired of Marla’s justification. As if they were the problem, not her no-good husband. “Carlo made this choice. Now you have to make a choice, Marla. You need to tell us the truth right now. No more lies. No more excuses. How did you get that black eye?”