Fire in Me

by Dawn Mattox

  “Aw... you poor thing. You should be home with Eli feeding you chicken-noodle soup,” I said sympathetically.

  “Ugh! Don’t even mention food. I am so sick! Are you on your way to the hospital?” Serena asked.

  “It sounds like you should be. I’m almost there. What do you have?”

  “The sheriff's office called,” Serena replied. “I think Crazy Bob—whose real name is Deputy Robert Martel—is waiting for you.”

  Crazy Bob is an officer who is hated by almost everyone but me. Maybe it is because I don’t have to work in the same agency with him, or maybe it is because I see him as being in a state of perpetual crisis. Some victims wear uniforms.

  “Who’s the victim?” I asked Serena.

  “Chelsea Nielsen; nineteen, married, pregnant. Umm...” she paused. “I don't know how far along she is. Last I heard, Dad—that would be Gregg Nielsen, took off with their two-year-old girl.” Serena knew how to break it down and give me just the facts.

  “And Rape Crisis is calling me instead of the Sierra SAFE (Stop Abuse for Everyone) House because there's a spousal rape involved?” I guessed.

  There was silence followed by a soft sigh. “That too, Serena said, stressing “battered, pregnant, and raped.”

  I caught my breath, sucker-punched by the memory of a raging Logan who had pushed me off the upstairs deck, sending me falling and bouncing off a massive ancient oak stump that stood twelve feet tall beneath a tangle of wisteria branches before rolling, unconscious, to the ground. I recovered from broken ribs, but not the broken heart. My best friend—the unborn child inside of me—had died. The born I had talked to, dreamed with, and sang songs to as it drummed along with its tiny feet and heartbeat... was gone. With it went the hope of future children.

  “Sunny? Hello? You still there? Darn cell phones!”

  “I'm here, Serena. I drop a lot of calls driving in the hills,” I said trying to refocus on the task at hand. “Is the baby alive?”

  “Last I heard it was. The sheriff's office asked if you would field this one. Sorry. It seems she is beyond uncooperative. They'd really like to get this guy and so would I, but you didn't hear me say that,” Serena added empathically.

  “Say what?” I could feel her sad smile. “Thanks, Serena. I’ll give you an update when I leave. Meantime, you should keep trying to find someone to cover your shift. Maybe Marne could come in early.”

  I heard some huffing and mumbling from Serena. No love lost there. Marne never would have called me out. Marne has what is called “old school” thinking that typified advocates' negative attitudes toward law enforcement back in the 1960's and '70's. Those dinosaurs hate me because I work with “the man” (law enforcement), and think I am a traitor to our sex.

  There is a dividing line in my job. While narrow, it is razor sharp and cuts deep. On the one hand, I am a Victim Advocate. One of my shortcomings includes a profound lack of political correctness. Like the story of The Emperor's Clothes, I just call it as I see it, and I see a significant number of Rape Crisis and Domestic Violence Advocates that are hard-core man-haters. Not to say they don’t have husbands or boyfriends—or justified reasons. But I work for the District Attorney, which in the world of them and us makes me one of them.

  Old school advocates still remember the grassroots development days of the women's advocacy movement. They recall the days when police could not respond to a spousal rape or wife beating call because the law still regarded such incidents as private matters. Even if they wanted to intervene, their hands were legally tied. Many women misinterpreted this to mean the cops were condoning male violence, which wasn’t necessarily true. I admit some cops are wife-beaters, but there was and still are men who do their best with the resources they have.

  Law enforcement is still a matter of apples and oranges. Family Law (apples) and Criminal Law (oranges) are two completely different things, although most people don’t understand that. They think the police can enforce anything relating to law. What they don’t know is that cops who try to intervene in family law matters can be personally sued. When that happens, they usually lose their jobs, their homes, and almost always their families by the end of the lawsuit.

  Back in the day, the law declared a woman crying at the door with a black eye could not prove that her husband was the one who punched her, even if his knuckles were bleeding. There were no eyewitnesses except for the wife who could not testify against her husband in court. But that was then, and this is now. A lot of things have changed since OJ murdered his wife... or whatever you choose to believe. The ugly truth remains: beatings still happen and sometimes they result in death.

  “Hey Crazy... what’s happening'?”

  Bob looked up from his seat in the hall. He looked physically bankrupt and totally lost in thought. It took a moment for him to tune in. “Montana. I’m moving to Montana—a thousand miles from everybody,” Bob proclaimed, looking miserable.

  “I’ll try not to take that personally.” I laughed, putting a supportive hand on his sagging shoulder. “You look exhausted. Out chasing bad guys all night?”

  “I just got back from a week-long seminar on sexual assault.” He shook his head. “Sick... and tired of it.” Have you talked to Chelsea?” he continued.

  I shook my head no.

  “I figured you could talk to her first. All I know is that she is about six months pregnant and bad-dad is both father and perpetrator. He is also bio-dad to their two-year-old daughter who is with him... somewhere. We did a drive by and no one was home.

  “He supposedly took off to go fishing.” Bob snorted, shaking his head. “We have an APB out and Fish and Game has a heads-up at the lake.”

  “Thanks, Bob.” Moments passed, both of us deep in thought. “And Robert,” he looked up, “I hear the hunting is terrific in Montana.”

  I left him smiling as I headed down the empty corridor, my shoes echoing a sad, steady refrain to the private SART Room, located away from public eyes. Devised by the Sexual Assault Response Team, a collaborative effort between advocates, law enforcement, and medical providers, the SART Room is isolated from the ER, designed to protect victims' privacy and provide specially trained nurses in the use of equipment necessary to gather and preserve forensic evidence

  Chelsea was one of the 25-45% of battered women who are pregnant. Abusers, who are control freaks by nature, resent that attention is taken from them and directed toward the unborn. Additionally, like Logan, they may resent the expense or inconvenience of a child. Mostly, the belly is just a target with a tempting bull's-eye.

  Sadly, more babies are born with birth defects from their mother being battered, than from the diseases and illnesses for which they were immunized.

  There's only one kind of “shot” that can protect the mother and baby in a case like this—and it doesn’t come from a hypodermic, I thought.

  I knocked, and the SART nurse opened the door. We exchanged greetings as she let me in. She was bound by HIPPA's patient confidentiality, but she raised her brows and whispered, “Good luck,” while giving me a go-ahead tip of her head and pointing to the patient with her eyes.

  Moving past the nurse, I saw two knees shaking under a draped flannel blanket and carrot-red hair fanned across the pillow. The victim’s face turned toward the wall, the silence broken only by the rhythmic, reassuring beep of a fetal heart monitor. I moved to the bedside.

  “Chelsea? My name is Sunny. I am the Advocate from the District Attorney’s Office, and Rape Crisis has sent me to talk to you.” I began in as soothing a voice as I could muster.

  A swollen face with two angry green eyes with bruises the color of wine-stains turned to glare at me. I mentally winced. I am a pro at concealing my feelings from victims. Her tears had pooled and spilled onto the bridge of her broken nose. I reached carefully over her bed and pulled some tissues from the box on the table by her bed.

  “May I touch you?” I asked. She nodded, and I took her hand in mine while pressing the tissues into her
other. Sometimes that’s all you can do. The sonogram was completed and the baby was holding steady. Next would be the Rape-Kit Exam.

  The nurse explained to a practically catatonic Chelsea, who was listening without hearing to what the procedure would entail. The nurse picked up a swab and asked Chelsea to open her mouth, explaining as she worked. “These swabs are to gather possible DNA.” The nurse continued with additional swabs to her vagina. “Next, I am going to take clippings from your fingernails and pubic hair. Those samples might provide trace evidence.” Chelsea shut her eyes and sniffled. “Now Chelsea, I am going to apply a blue dye to the inner parts of your vagina. Then I will take some photographs with a high-tech camera. The pictures document any lacerations or trauma the dye might reveal.”

  Chelsea chewed on her bottom lip and swiped at silent tears with the back of her hand.

  Not everybody has visible injuries from rape. Not everybody cries. Some people—especially juries—have a difficult time sympathizing with victims like these. That is why I also serve as Expert Witness for the prosecution. I educate people about the dynamics of rape and domestic violence. If Chelsea cooperates with such apparent injuries, her husband could serve three or more years in prison just on the rape charges and another two or three years for the domestic violence. If the baby should die... I added up the possibilities, knowing his sentence would hinge on the victim's cooperation.

  It was possible Chelsea would go sideways and drop the spousal rape charges. This is her legal right and may provide a temporary reprieve for the victim, but it also increases the likelihood that her abuser will go on to victimize more women with a feeling of impunity.

  “I just want to know where my daughter is.” Chelsea sobbed.

  “The police are looking for your husband and your daughter. Do you know where they might be?” I asked.

  “Fishing! I already told the cops, he said he was going fishing,” she retorted, undoubtedly tired of repeating the story.

  The bottom line is, everyone wants to help. The problem arises when victims are required by law enforcement to constantly repeat and relive the traumatic events, leaving women like Chelsea emotionally exhausted. Some Advocates will intervene at this point to protect the victim’s right not to have an exam and not to cooperate if she doesn’t want to. They believe they are doing this in the victim’s best interest by supporting her immediate wishes. That is advocacy in its purest sense: to support whatever the victim decides.

  I, on the other hand, am there primarily to gain the victim’s cooperation and hold the offender accountable. Ultimately the victim has no choice but to fight back or give the abuser a

  Get Out Of Jail Free card. I passionately believe that it is in the victim’s best interest to take an active role in the justice process. I had yet to see any victims benefit from running from their past or living in denial. And yet, I was guilty of both.

  “Step One” in every recovery program begins with admitting you have an overwhelming problem. At this moment, Chelsea was definitely overwhelmed. She was also vulnerable. I hoped to exploit her weakness and thereby empower her. Sometimes, it is in your darkest hour that you find your strength. Anger can be a powerful, motivating emotion. The advocates on the other side of that professional dividing line equate my actions as being as contemptible as the abusers. In their minds, my method is a form of revictimization. They could be right.

  I held Chelsea’s hand, silently praying for her as she went through the humiliation of an intimate, invasive examination of her already traumatized body. As she rolled onto her back, a small tattoo peeked over her shoulder; an ornate cross draped with tiny red roses. That is my green light. I can lose my job for proselytizing or preaching religion to victims unless they initiate the conversation. I am vigilant, careful never to violate the ethics of my job. However, I am just as relentless in seeking every opportunity for God.

  “You can get dressed now,” the nurse announced.

  At this point in the procedure, the nurse would typically offer the victim a Morning-After pill to prevent an unwanted pregnancy. I pondered the emotions of women who have the added misfortune to suffer rape while pregnant. I wondered how she will feel every time she looks at her child, forever and inseparably linked to her agony. Then too, I considered the future of the child, born stained with the sins of the father.

  I had been born into a milieu similar to this baby. I knew the hostility and rejection of an angry mother and bore the scars of my father's many sins. Like most victims of child abuse, I accepted my parents and craved their approval until adolescence when I learned that the word “abused” applied to me. Awareness typically births rage, acceptance, or as in my case, a muddy blend of both.

  Startled, I looked up to see the nurse securing the chain of evidence; those swabs and vials that brimmed with sorrow and suffering, into a lock box.

  “Chelsea. There’s an officer outside the door. He wants to talk with you about what happened,” I began.

  A fire kindled in her eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it again. I want out of here. Where the hell is my kid? Why haven't they found her?”

  I wasn't put off by her caustic behavior. I but knew that her response was rooted in physical and emotional trauma. “Chelsea, I see by your tattoo that you believe in Christ,” I crooned, extending a comforting invitation to the faith option. This was dangerous territory.

  “Fuck you and God too! Don't you dare preach to me. I didn’t deserve this! Where the hell was God, and... who the hell are you to talk to me? What do you know about being raped anyhow?” Her words were venomous, her manner toxic as she continued her rant. “Like, what? Did you get a degree in 'Rape' in college?”

  No, I thought angrily, staunching unexpected tears. I earned my degree from the school of life. Unlike many of my colleagues, my work is rooted in empathy, not sympathy. I didn’t read about it in a book. It was birthed through the pain of my youth.

  CHAPTER 4

  Motorcycles roared through the woods, engines slowing to turn down the dirt driveway. At least Lefty had made it home for my birthday. I felt like I was sixteen-going-on-twenty-one because I had lived mostly on my own over the past six years.

  Lefty tried to stick around after Starla left, but stability just wasn’t in his outlaw blood. Lefty was a driven man. He had a hard outlook, was hard hitting and hard riding, with a pack of Vietnam-inspired demons at his heels. He had been more than happy to arrange for our nearest neighbors, an elderly Native American couple, Joyce and Benny Clark, to watch me during the week and him returning home on weekends.

  He knew, because of their cultural tradition, the Clarks probably wouldn’t call Child Protective Services to take me away, and he figured some money to supplement the couple’s Social Security was a fair trade off for allowing Joyce to preach her “Christian crap” to his kid. Lefty didn't know and wouldn't have cared, but Benny was not Christian. He remained close to his heritage. He believed in many spirits—drumming, singing his native songs, sweating in the lodge down by the river, and gambling at the annual Hand Games, or Tep We as the gathering is called. Hand Games are where tribal members drink, sing native songs for power, and play a guessing game where they toss and hide small animal bones in their hands. Joyce and Benny always had a hot meal, an extra warm bed, and plenty of love.

  Joyce helped me bake a birthday cake. She taught me to cook and taught me about religion. The only religion I had known growing up was the “Jesus Christ!” and “God damn it” that came out of Lefty’s mouth when he was dangerously angry.

  At least a dozen hogs rumbled down the road onto our five acres surrounded by national forest land, and I was pretty sure Joyce and Benny could hear them from a mile away at their cabin. Most of the homes scattered about Feather Falls were originally brought down on logs from logging Camp One as part of the government’s Indian Land Grant provision before I was born.

  I looked with despair at my little cake and wished Jesus would multiply it like the loaves and fishes I had h
eard about. I doubted that I would ever get a bite with all these people showing up. Sighing, I ran out to greet Lefty. I loved my dad. He was just who he was, and he was all I had.

  “Daddy!”

  “Hey, Princess! Happy fucking birthday!” He swept me up in his powerful bear hug and smothered me with kisses. “How’s my favorite girl?”

  I didn’t struggle, in spite of being laughed at by others watching a fifteen-now-sixteen-year-old dangling from Lefty’s arms like a rag doll. I knew most of his Hells Angels brothers. They’d all been regular partiers over the years. Cheech and his “old lady” girlfriend (who was also my Mom's best friend) Sheena, Fugly and Rags, Skunk, Preacher, Sonny with an unknown blonde, among others including a lively redhead who had ridden in two-up, seated behind Lefty with her arms wrapped possessively around him.

  Today, colorful bags of gifts decorated the back of most of the bikes. In the midst of all the laughter and excitement, I felt the stranger's presence before I saw him. Tall, dark, intense, about thirty. I felt eyes boring into me and turned, freezing like a deer in a spotlight before my future husband. Black leathers, three-piece patched—meaning he was a full member—and a red on white diamond “1%” patch indicating he, like all Hells Angels, was one of the one-percent of bikers designated as outlaws. I wondered why I hadn’t seen him before until I noticed the San Bernardino, or “San Berdoo” Chapter patch and realized he was up from Southern California, called ‘SoCal’ by NorCal natives.

  Tattoos that ran from wrist to shoulder told the rest of his story; he belonged to Hells Angels, rode a Harley, was Born to Die and was Hellbound. There were the others, including a pair of SS lightning bolts and twin two-headed rattlesnakes that seemed to coil and slither when he flexed his powerful biceps. Ultimately the ink he had taken into his skin was a mark of the beast, the way a signature on a document shows ownership. Too bad I didn't know how to read contracts at the time.