Betrayed: Powerful Stories of Kick-Ass Crime Survivors

by Allison Brennan

  But she wasn’t going to talk about her relationship with anyone, not even her sister.

  “I just don’t want you to let our past stop you from being happy. You deserve it. You always looked out for me growing up. You always had my back. I want you to be as happy as I am.”

  “You’re happy?” It came out as an accusation, not a question.

  “Of course, I am. Tom is the best husband in the world, and TJ is a great kid. He’s smart and does well in school and he’s starting baseball in the spring. We just signed him up for a team, and Tom is going to be the assistant coach. He’s such a good dad. Not like what we had growing up.”

  The anger and rage started to build again. It was always there, beneath the surface, so it didn’t take much for it to ignite. “Good dad? Best husband? Last year he pushed you down the stairs and you were in the hospital for forty-eight hours with a serious concussion and fractured arm. Or did you forget?”

  Dammit, Jack! Why’d you come here? You knew you’d blow it.

  Melissa glared at her with what Jackie could only think of as hatred. “You can go now.”

  “Melissa—it wasn’t the first time. You’ve got to wake up.”

  “I am awake. You’re a bitter, angry woman who doesn’t know how to be happy and resents anyone who is happy. Don’t ruin this for me. We’ve been married ten years. I have a great life, a family, a husband who loves me. And you have violence and criminals in your life and don’t even realize you have a great guy who’d do anything for you, but you can’t even let him be happy.”

  “Men like Tom don’t stop. I had a case tonight where—”

  “Shut up and get out.” Melissa got up and walked to the door. “And don’t come back.”

  Damn damn damn!

  “Melissa, listen to me!”

  “I refuse to be as miserable as you. Get out, or so help me, I’ll call the cops on you. Won’t that be fun?”

  “You’d call the cops on your sister, but not your husband who hits you?”

  “Get! Out! Get out, get out, get out!”

  Jackie had blown it. Again. Melissa held the door open, her face red, and she refused to look Jackie in the eye.

  “I swear, Melissa, if he ever lays a hand on TJ, I will kill him.”

  “I hate you.”

  Chapter Three

  Jackie pulled up to her townhouse off Garden Highway. She’d bought it three years ago shortly after her thirtieth birthday, and she never planned to move. Her neighbors were white collar professionals and didn’t cause problems, it was quiet, and she had a deck overlooking the Sacramento River. She couldn’t afford a boat yet, not anything decent, but was saving up her overtime pay. Maybe in a year or so she could buy a boat. The water relaxed her like nothing else.

  When she turned her Jeep into her garage, she saw Rick was already there, his five-year-old Harley Road King parked to the side. He babied that bike. Didn’t even own a car. Bikes both excited her and made her nervous. When she’d been a uniformed cop, all too often she’d been the first on scene of a motorcycle fatality. At the same time, riding with Rick was exhilarating and could clear her mind after a tough day.

  Her planned night of bubble bath, wine, and sex had been ruined, and there was no getting it back. Partly because of the Beckers, but mostly because of her. Why the hell had she gone to Melissa’s tonight? Why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut? Because Marla Becker and her daughter reminded Jackie too much of Melissa and TJ? Or too much like her and Melissa growing up?

  Jackie had been doing good, too, even with all the talk of their mother coming to TJ’s birthday, until Melissa ran her mouth about how fabulous Tom was to her, what a good father and husband, and she might as well have said he walked on water and had a fast-track to sainthood.

  Was Melissa going to disinvite her to TJ’s birthday? She hadn’t yet. She said she hated her, but that was par for the course when they argued. She didn’t mean it. Melissa was up and down, hot and cold.

  Jackie brought home baggage from the police station, she always had. Because her job was her life, and she’d never forgotten how terrified she’d been hiding under her bed while her father belted her mother, holding her little sister under her arm, telling her everything was going to be all right. Jackie had promised Melissa no one would hurt her, and Jackie had failed. Tom Stafford was, essentially, a mirror image of their father. Sure, he was prettier and richer and smarter, but he was in all other ways just like Paul Regan—neat freak, harsh disciplinarian, cruel dictator—and Melissa couldn’t see the truth.

  Jackie didn’t know what was worse: that her mother had been beaten, or that her father would cry and tell her mother he was so sorry and they would have sex and wake up the next morning like nothing had happened. Her mother would hide the bruises with make-up, but they all knew.

  Or was it worse that her sister had married a man just like their father as if she didn’t remember anything of their life growing up?

  Tom was worse than their father. Paul Regan hadn’t been able to stop his rage. He couldn’t hide it from people, and eventually, he went too far and went to prison for attempted murder. He would have been out in fifteen except he’d killed a guy behind bars and had another twenty tacked onto his fifteen-to-twenty. But with her father, Jackie always knew what to expect. She could read his moods, knew how to disappear when he was on a tear. He was predictable in his violence.

  Tom Stafford was a devil in disguise, handsome and well-off and smart. He lied smoothly and easily, and had Melissa convinced that if he hurt her, it was her fault. And he was sorry. Always sorry. He bought her flowers and jewelry and things. And Melissa accepted his apology each and every time. She had convinced herself that it didn’t happen because she could lie so convincingly Jackie almost believed her.

  Jackie pounded her fist into the deep freezer she had in the garage and took a deep breath. Damn, that hurt. She had to stop hitting things. She’d already broken her wrist once because of her temper. But at least she hit things not people, and the only person she hurt was herself.

  She kicked the freezer, and noticed all the dents on the front and top. The reality of her violence toward inanimate objects stopped her for a second. This had become a bad habit.

  She needed a healthier habit.

  Jackie went upstairs and smelled lasagna, her favorite comfort food. And Rick stood in the dining room with a glass of wine for her. Wearing a black T-shirt and sweatpants, his hair was damp from a recent shower.

  “You need a punching bag,” Rick said and kissed her.

  “What?” She took the wine from him and drank heavily.

  “Your poor freezer isn’t going to last much longer.”

  “You heard that?”

  She ran her free hand through his dark hair. He didn’t flinch when she touched the jagged scar that went from his hairline to his jawline. Shrapnel had cut him deep in the face and back during his last tour in Afghanistan while he was saving the life of a fellow soldier. Even Army medics got attacked. Rick never talked about it. He’d told her a very abbreviated story when she’d asked, and she hadn’t asked for more. She could easily fill in the blanks.

  She smiled and kissed him. “You showered without me.”

  They didn’t live together, but Rick had a key and he’d been spending more time here than at his own place close to Mercy Hospital where he worked.

  “I’m happy to shower again if I have company.”

  What had she done to deserve this man? Was Melissa right? Did he want more than she was capable of giving?

  He kissed her again.

  She put her glass down and pulled Rick tight to her, her hands already working on the drawstring on his sweats. Rick knew exactly what she wanted, what she needed, to purge the memories of Marla Becker’s swollen eye from her mind. To forget the cries of her mother, the lies of her sister, and the rage that burned deep inside.

  They didn’t make it to her bedroom, and Jackie didn’t care. Hot, urgent sex on the living room floor c
leared her mind and enabled her to breathe again. To calm down. To remember that she was home and she was trying so damn hard to not bring her job home.

  After, she collapsed onto his chest. His shirt was still on. They’d rushed into sex, but sometimes the sprint to the finish line was exciting. It had definitely turned her on. “I needed that,” she whispered, satisfied.

  “There’s more where that came from.” He flipped her over and kissed her hard, then smiled. “Now or later?”

  She almost laughed and said both, but she was famished. “I smell lasagna.”

  “I made it.”

  “I’m starving.”

  “And horny.”

  “With you, always. Feed me and you might get lucky again.”

  He ran his hand over her breasts, gently squeezed, and a shiver ran through her. He grinned and pushed himself off the floor. Held his hand out to her and helped her up. She kissed him, then tossed him his sweats. She found her underwear on the floor, then her shirt, and picked up her wine glass.

  Rick brought out the lasagna and salad. He served them both, then retrieved a beer for himself. It was a comfortable silence while they ate. Rick never felt like he had to talk, and neither did Jackie. He was ex-Army, former Green Beret, who had done two tours in Afghanistan as a medic after an intense training program which included a stint in a New York City trauma ward. After his tours, he served at an Army hospital in the states until his eight-year commitment ran out. He rarely talked about his time overseas, but that was okay.

  “I’m lucky to have you,” she said halfway through the meal.

  “Yes, you are.” He wrapped his leg around hers under the table. “The feeling is mutual.”

  She ate, wondering if her sister was right. Jackie poured herself another glass of wine.

  “Alright, spill,” Rick said.

  She shook her head. He got up to retrieve another beer for himself, then took her hand and kissed her knuckles, still red from hitting the freezer.

  “You don’t need to hear about it,” she said.

  “I do.”

  “You get shit all day in the ER, you don’t need to hear mine.” She tried to get up, but he held her hand and pulled her back down.

  “Jack.”

  “Rick.”

  “I could tell you what’s eating you up.”

  “Not true.”

  “We’ve been together for well over two years. You deal with shit cases all the time, but the only cases where you beat up your poor, innocent freezer are domestic violence cases. What happened?”

  He was right. She hadn’t realized it until he said it, but she only got this angry when she had a DV call. “The Beckers. Carlo Becker hit a cop with his car as he was fleeing after neighbors called 911 because of fighting at their house.”

  “Cop okay?”

  “Yeah, concussion, staying overnight for observation, yada yada. He’ll be fine. Dom—he was at the fourth of July party my partner threw.”

  “I remember him.” Rick paused. “And?”

  “And what?”

  “You went to see Melissa.”

  “If you knew, why the twenty questions?” It sometimes unnerved her how Rick understood her so well.

  “Every time you get one of these calls, you go see Melissa. It’s not rocket science.”

  “Are we okay?”

  He leaned back, seemed confused. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Not nothing.”

  “Really.” She was too tired, too crabby, and too … hell, she didn’t know.

  “We’re great, Jack.” Rick rose and pulled Jackie up with him. She ran her hands down his arms, then back up, tracing her fingers along his Army tattoo, then back down. She was so much better at sex than talking. And the way he kissed her … yeah, they were okay. Very okay.

  She said, “Let’s go to bed.”

  “I’m not tired.”

  She smiled and reached under his waistband. “Neither am I.”

  Chapter Four

  Carlo Becker’s arraignment was held at the main courthouse in downtown Sacramento. When Jackie was still in uniform, she’d rotated in as a bailiff for six months. She hated it. A lot of good deputies wanted to spend their last couple years at the courthouse—less stress than being on the beat, less chance of being shot at or spit on. It wasn’t a bad gig, but Jackie would go stir-crazy.

  She talked to the head clerk and got the docket number and court time. She had forty-five minutes, and texted Chris that she’d pick him up coffee and meet him in the vestibule on two. They could go up to the fourth floor together.

  She’d apologized to Rick, who was always cool with any change of schedule. They had both been called in on their days off, and they’d both had to work late when they thought they have time off. Maybe that’s why their relationship worked. No pressure. No expectations, other than common understanding that they both put their jobs first.

  Chris arrived ten minutes after she did. She handed him his black coffee. “Thanks.”

  “You know, I could have handled this alone,” she said as they started up the stairs to the fourth floor.

  “I know. Which judge caught the case?”

  “Bean. He’s pretty good.”

  “Becker will still make bail.”

  She grunted and sipped her sweetened coffee.

  “Jackie, I know you. You’re going to take it personally if Marla welcomes him back home with open arms.”

  “I don’t take it personally,” she grumbled.

  “Don’t take it all on your shoulders.”

  “Maybe bail will be set too high and they won’t make it. After all, Carlo hit a cop.”

  Chris opened the door on four and they walked down the long, wide, brightly lit hall. They nodded to a couple deputies they knew who were sitting outside a courtroom ready to testify, then stopped in a wide area where the two wings came together.

  “We have a shot here,” Chris said.

  “Maybe I’m just too jaded to be effective anymore.”

  “Where is this coming from? We make a good team. Since the new intervention and investigation program started, our success rate on DV cases has doubled compared to the first year.”

  “Ten percent to twenty percent is not a success. That still means we have an eighty percent failure rate.”

  Chris shook his head. Even her partner was becoming frustrated with her.

  They spotted Marla Becker exit the elevator.

  “Tread softly,” Chris said as Jackie made a beeline toward the woman. “We’re close with her.”

  Jackie agreed, but close wasn’t good enough. She plastered a stern smile on her face. Firm, but hopefully wouldn’t scare her away. “Marla, can I have a moment please?”

  Marla’s eye was mostly open, and she’d covered the worst of the injury with make-up, but the swelling was still clear as day.

  “I need to go,” Marla said, eyes cast downward.

  “The arraignment isn’t going to start for a few minutes,” Jackie said.

  “I-I don’t think I should talk to you.”

  Marla was jittery, a sign of abuse. Not all abused women acted the same way. Some were like Melissa—in denial, defiant in their attitude. If anyone met Melissa on the street or at TJ’s school, they’d think she was on top of the world with a fabulous life, successful husband, not a care in the world. Not once have the police been called to the house. Not once has there been a public display of brutality. It was only in private that Tom hurt her.

  Marla, however, was a stereotypical abused spouse, thought Jackie. Edgy. Nervous. Scared. Carlo’s wife averted her eyes, walked with hunched shoulders. And she wouldn’t leave her husband. Denial? Maybe. More like Marla had no idea what she would do without him. She’d mentioned money more than once, how could she support her daughter, keep a roof over her head. She had no other family, no support system, no friends. Nothing Jackie or Chris could say could dissuade that deep fear of abandonment and loneliness. Fear kept her in line at
home, and fear kept her from leaving.

  Except right now, Marla was on edge, and Jackie was good at getting those on the edge to come around.

  “I can get you help,” Jackie said. “Hope House will take you and Lizzy in, no questions, until you can get on your feet. You can talk to someone. They’ll help you find a job, provide day care for Lizzy when she’s not in school. All you need to do is leave. Walk away. Get a restraining order so Carlo can’t come near you.”

  “But Lizzy is his daughter. How can I keep Carlo from his own daughter?”

  “Because men like Carlo don’t stop. You know it. How many times have the police been called out to your house? My partner and I were assigned to talk to you, to explain your options, to tell you what the law is and investigate for you. We’re your advocates, Marla. We want to help you and Lizzy.”

  “You have no idea what my marriage is like.”

  “You’re right. And the court can make arrangements for supervised visits if that’s what you really want. But the priority is to get you and Lizzy into a safe environment.”

  Marla was listening. For the first time, Jackie really believed that Marla had absorbed everything she and Chris had been saying for the last four months, since they’d been assigned to this family after the third domestic disturbance call.

  Chris handed Marla his card. “In case you lost the others. I wrote my cell phone and Jackie’s cell phone on the back. Call either of us at any time.”

  Marla took the card. “I-I need to think. I don’t know what to do.”

  Jackie kept her voice low, tried to keep a sympathetic edge on the conversation. “If you don’t leave for yourself, do it for Lizzy.”

  “Carlo has never, never hurt Lizzy.”

  “Not yet. But someday, when you’re not around for him to take out his frustrations, he’ll turn to Lizzy. It’s only a matter of time.” Lizzy was the key. Often, the children were how Jackie finally got through to the victims. They might not want to save themselves, but they would protect their children.

  Tears welled in Marla’s eyes. She glanced all around, as if looking for an escape.

  “Carlo assaulted a deputy,” Chris said. “He’s not walking away from this.”