by Dawn Mattox
“I guess that’s it,” I sighed, thinking maybe Bob had the right idea about retiring in the outback of no man's land.
An hour later I made my way across the parking lot to the courthouse. I always feel like a moving target when negotiating the parking lot. Most criminals resign themselves to being sentenced after breaking the law. But at least half of the Family Law attendees exit the building enraged. It’s one thing to take away a man’s freedom and another to take away his kids.
The criminal courtroom was overflowing. Travis sat next to Amanda, the prosecutor of our vertical prosecution team. Amanda Cross is an unforgettable two-hundred and fifty pounds of African-American tigress. A remarkable, sophisticated woman who can hold her own on any courtroom floor, and probably on any bar room floor if needed. Her trademark is her broad, sweeping, colorful hats and turbans that tend to intimidate both defense attorneys and the sternest of judges. As long as she keeps her professional demeanor, she is free to express her heritage with her colorful attire. And she does just that.
I edged my way toward the table and managed to grab the last chair as the next case was called. Judge Pack might have been sitting on his gavel from the pained look on his face. The room went silent as the judge established eye contact with Travis and motioned him to the bench.
Travis paused and pointed to himself. “Me?”
“Now!” the judge fumed.
Travis got up and made his way to the bench where Judge Pack leaned forward and whispered something in his ear. Travis, however, walked away looking totally confused. Halfway back, Travis paused and turned back toward the bench. “The gun? The gun?”
Judge Pack dropped his head in despair. “The gum. Get rid of the gum!”
The courtroom erupted in laughter, and I was the worst.
Bam! “Order in the court!”
Travis pulled himself together. “Thank you, Your Honor, for not embarrassing me in front of the court,” he said, throwing the judge a winning grin as hysterics broke out again.
An hour later I borrowed Travis’s personal camera, offering him a pack of gum as payment. I left him laughing and headed out to meet Chelsea who had returned to her home in the agricultural town of Palermo, just south of Oroville after the court issued a “stay away” order against Gregg on her behalf. For now, the house was hers, and Gregg was staying with one of his sisters in Oroville.
Bruises deepen in color over time. Yesterday’s red is today’s black and blue. Convictions should be commensurate with the full extent of the injury. Most injuries are scarcely visible in the first few hours, so I try to get follow-up pictures over the next two-five days to strengthen the prosecutor's case.
Sure enough, Chelsea’s eye was Welch’s grape juice purple, and she had fingerprint-shaped bruises on the inside of both thighs below her shorts. She was depressed and still disagreeable. Her daughter's laughter wound its way down the hall, and her giggle was a breath of fresh air as she watched cartoons from her bedroom. We had a window of opportunity for privacy in the front room. Chelsea lifted her tank top over her rounded belly. I reached out and lightly touched it with a kind of reverence and awe. Variegated shades of red and purple crossed her breasts and stomach. “Let me take some pictures, Chelsea. The jury has a right to see your injuries at their worst.”
“No,” she said. “I went through this before when we lived in Portland. Gregg was arrested for pushing me out of a moving car. All he got was an anger management class that he didn’t even complete.” Despair seemed to engulf her. I didn’t know all the details of how he had slipped through the cracks in Oregon, but I made a mental note to follow up.
I was drawn once again to the tattooed cross on her shoulder. “Chelsea, are you a Christian?” I asked.
Amazing how God opens doors. It’s understandable that people get angry at God after they have been victimized. But given time to process their anger, ninety-nine times out of a hundred they leap with hope at the opportunity to approach their circumstances through the door of faith.
Before leaving Chelsea, we said a prayer for healing and understanding that God had not forgotten her. She may be despised by her husband, but she is loved and precious in the heart of God. God does not make trash, and God did not beat her. Neither did he design his daughters to be punching bags. Chelsea needed to understand that she had been the victim of another person's free will.
Travis wasn’t around when I stopped by to return his camera. Probably still in court. I could have left the camera on his desk and walked out, but I thought I should leave a note about Chelsea's decision not to use the sexual assault pictures taken at the hospital. Okay, the truth: I was curious, and wanted to snoop into his private life. So I looked around at a completely sterile office. No pictures, no plants. Not even a calendar. I’ve seen more inviting prison cells. He probably wouldn’t mind if I peek in his desk.
Nothing of interest in the middle drawer, unless you call a pack of gum and a Swiss Army knife exciting. What is it with men and their pocket knives? And they criticize women for their purses! These guys pack one or more handguns, a rifle, and canister if mace in their cars and they still need that little red knife to complete their outfit.
Hmm? Probably find Post-it Notes in a side drawer. Wrong. No Post-its, but there was a photograph of a beautiful woman and two children; a girl about four years old that looked just like Mom, and a miniature Travis who looked around seven. It was signed on the back; Love, Christy and the kids.
“Excuse me. Can I help you find something?”
It was Paige.
“No.”
“I want to see,” Paige said as she snatched the picture from my hand. She studied it, and a smile played at the corner of her mouth.
“Hmmm. Looks like Mr. T’s married. Cute kids. Very sexy.”
I have no idea why she thought being married made a man sexy. Then again, maybe she thought his wife was sexy. You never know these days.
“I was looking for... um, paper,” I said.
“Sure you were,” she mocked, with a derisive laugh. She flipped the picture on the desk, spun around and sashayed her way back to the common area.
Home feels empty when Chance is gone, but Kissme, my almost three-pound blonde Pomeranian is always there, spinning in circles with abundant joy and endless wet kisses. Dogs are distinguished in their various talents. I stared in contemplation as I watched Kissme turn six full circles as she trotted down the hall. Unbelievable!
My childhood neighbor and caretaker, Kenny, never had to teach his Siberian Husky to pull. From the first time he harnessed Matushka to a sled, Whoosh! She was gone. Another neighbor raised a Collie named Chief. That crazy dog spent every day of its ten-year life trotting out to the pasture right after breakfast, dutifully barking and herding the same two horses around the pasture all-day-every-day of its life. Put Chuck's hound, Little Bit, on a bear trail, and you could watch it follow the bear to the ends of the earth... or until it is treed the bear, whichever came first.
What was God thinking when he designed a dog to always spin in one direction? If I took Kissme to The Land Down Under, would she reverse direction like water in an Australian toilet whirls opposite of ours? I finally concluded that Poms must be living proof that God has a sense of humor.
At least with Chance gone, I imagined sleeping in. I had early meetings in Chico and would drive straight to them.
I moved between comfortable, warm, slippery sheets, softly moaning. I could smell Chance’s strong masculine scent and feel his twenty-four-hour five o’clock shadow brush across my breasts as I woke. I lingered. Oh please don’t let this dream be over. I am so ready!
I never fantasize about other men, preferring instead to daydream about my sexy husband. Chance would be pleasantly shocked at what we have done and where we have done it in my imagination. I missed Chance and ached for him alone.
Kissme gave me a rude reality check, standing on my chest and bumping me with her wet nose, demanding that I get up and take care of busines
s. Sighing, I let go of the vision, pulled off the sheets, grabbed my robe and let out the dog before heading to the shower.
“And I will always love youuuuuu.”
Hugging a large towel, I dripped my way down the hall to answer my cell, flipped it open and got the dial tone. So I poured an oversized cup of coffee and shuffled back to the bathroom. I don’t function without coffee.
“Beep.”
Blonde, sun-streaked hair tumbled from the towel as I stood in front of the mirror shaking my head.
“Beep.”
I turned on the blow dryer thinking if I ignored the sound, it would go away. It didn’t.
“Beep.”
I hate that sound. The one that comes at o’dark-thirty when I am sound asleep, telling me my cell phone’s battery is low. I got up and checked my phone before remembering that Chance had forgotten his and asked me to look for it. It should be just short of dead by now.
“Beep.”
I narrowed the field. The phone was either in the trash, the hamper, or the toilet.
“Beep.”
Found it! The black cell phone rang from the inside pocket of Chance’s dirty work shirt. “Huh.” The New Text Message symbol was on the screen. Being the dutiful wife, I figured I would forward the message to Mark’s phone.
I didn’t know Chance’s password, so I experimented by keying in my best guesses; “Sunny” and “Sunshine.” No go. I keyed in “rescue.” Not good. Okay. I hated to admit it, but maybe I am not his first love. I keyed in “Mercy” and Bingo! I was in.
The text message included a picture from allaboutme and read, “Hey baby, meet u @ casino @ 3. got r room!”
My jaw hit the floor.
It didn’t take a plastic surgeon to figure out whose silicone snow cones I was looking at.
CHAPTER 7
Sweat ran into my already fried eyes, fueling the burning caused by the thick dust and exhaust from the half-million bikers traveling at two miles per hour as they funneled into Sturgis.
As sure as the geese fly south every winter and the salmon run in the fall, Hells Angels trek to Sturgis, probably the largest motorcycle rally and flesh fest in the free world.
Booze was on the menu—breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Login drank himself drunk at every stop along the way, like he was pigging out on appetizers before the main course at the end of the trail.
We probably would have wrecked if it wasn't for the crank he snorted following the rounds of beer.
Wasted bikers have an internal autopilot that functions most of the time, and they seem to be okay with that.
I had just turned seventeen, and although I was used to the drunken debauchery that took place at least twice a month at the cabin growing up, I was still a stranger to big cities and large crowds.
I had never been in a bar, attended an outdoor festival, or even been to the Bay Area.
My life was in the mountains, and Sturgis attracted more people to their annual motorcycle rally than the entire population of Butte County. And all of them were bikers.
Since this was my first trip to Sturgis, or anywhere else for that matter, I was ecstatic in spite of my fears.
Logan kept me close to his side from Frisco to Colorado and on to Custer, South Dakota.
About seventy miles out of Sturgis we met up with several other Hells Angels chapters arriving from coast to coast, now totaling over one-hundred motorcycles in our pack.
I clung to Logan in fear while taking in the wonder of it all.
Hells Angels were different from the other bikers.
Although Sturgis is attended by the most powerful biker gangs in America, we were the most famous of them all with chapters from across the country and around the world.
Outlaw biker clubs are made up of soldiers, and chapter presidents might be kings of their turf, but Sonny Barger was Emperor of the Angel universe.
Oakland ruled.
Our president rode out in front of the entire procession.
We were like gods—or maybe more like locusts—depending on your point of view.
Honda Gold Wings had taken up the parking in front of Gunner's Saloon.
Honda Gold Wings are the Cadillac's of luxury-touring bikes typically associated with retirees. But they weren’t there for long.
Sonny immediately broke the biker's cardinal rule of never touching another person's motorcycle, by dispatching his prospects—those club initiates who were still in the process of earning their patches—not only to touch the bikes, but move them to the parking area in the middle of the road.
At first there was a lot of cursing and honking from backed up traffic as enraged Gold Wing owners ran out of the bar. But the melee ended as fast as it began.
The Gold Wingers' hot tempers did a quick chill as Hells Angels colors came into focus. They proceeded to mount up and ride off without further commotion, leaving us plenty of parking in front of our bar.
Other riders waited for the road to clear, the near riot ended like the flick of a switch as sodden brains lit up with recognition.
Hells Angels ruled.
I didn't think of myself as a victim with Logan there.
I felt safe, surrounded by such powerful men.
I knew they would protect me from all of those crazy people.
Some people wake up to the sounds of traffic, honking horns, and the steady hum of city life.
Looking out my kitchen window, I almost always count my blessings that I wake to the sounds of mountain life: cattle lowing down in the valley, my neighbor’s obnoxious rooster, Canadian geese honking their way back home, and the wind sighing in the pines.
This morning, however, the magic of the moment dimmed in light of the music playing on Chance's cell phone in the palm of my hand.
“Hello? Hello?” Whoops! Wrong phone. I picked up my phone and proceeded with caution.
“Good morning, beautiful. It's almost 10:00 o’clock here. How is it going?”
Chance's voice always made my heart beat faster; usually with love. But today I was practically in cardiac arrest from hurt, anger, and confusion.
Still foggy with sleep, I wasn’t sure where to begin.
“Sunny? Can you hear me? Hello?”
“Hey, Chance. Where are you?”
“We are in a staging area outside of the city. Man, this place is unreal. People are actually shooting at us if you can believe it.”
“Shooting at you? Why?”
“Looters, probably,” he speculated. “One of the rescue boats was hijacked by a gang of teenagers. You have to see it to believe it. We flew in over downtown New Orleans—and we are talking a major disaster here. Looks like half of the state is under water. Probably is. Dangerous. They say there are about sixty-thousand people still trapped. Pray for us, Sunny.”
Pray for him? Is he for real? I’ll pray an alligator bites him in the crotch—
“Hey Mercy, knock it off.”
“What's she doing?”
“She's got her nose in Mark's butt.”
I could hear men laughing and joking in the background, but it seemed like a million miles away.
I tried to organize my thoughts.
“Babe, did you find my phone?”
“No.” Lying is a sin, but I wished I had never found his phone.
I wonder if that’s another negative point on my celestial scorecard?
I wasn't ready to face the truth and all of its consequences.
“Shut it off for me when you find it, Okay?”
“I'll put it on the charger for you.”
“No! Uh... not necessary. I'm going to be here for a long time. Just go ahead and turn it off.”
“I can forward your messages to you.” My eyes narrowed in anger.
Silence for a couple of beats.
Chance rarely raises his voice. He made an exception. “Turn it off, Okay!” His stress stabbed at my already wounded heart.
My unasked question had just been answered.
; “Right! I gotta go. Have a good one. I don't know when I'll be able to call again. I love you, Sunny.”
Really? “Yeah, okay.”
“Bye.”
The full moon was faint, riding low over the valley, reflecting yet another golden feature of our beautiful state—turning the drought-ridden landscape to a pale flaxen gold until the rain returns, six months from now if we are lucky.
I drove down the hill with the windows down and the heater on with just one thought in mind—Starbucks.
I would sort everything else out after that.
The weather was pleasant enough to leave Kissme outdoors in her “gated community,” a twelve-by-twelve foot pen under a black oak inhabited by two large gray squirrels that were bigger than her.
I am pretty sure they won't harm her, but I wouldn't be surprised if they spend their days laughing and using her for target practice with their acorns.
I thought about coffee. I thought about my dog. I thought about living on the moon and wondered if Kissme would be happy there.
I thought about everything but Chance, the dreadful text message, and how my life was about to change.
Those thoughts, or absence of thoughts, were a skill I had developed early in life, or perhaps I should call it a gift.
It is called dissociation.
Victims of constant abuse know it well.
When circumstances overwhelm, the mind dissociates; thoughts pack up and take a vacation, leaving the rest of the world behind.
If Logan was anything, he was familiar; “Little Lefty,” some called him. That should have been frightening, but it wasn't—at first. After all, I was Daddy's Girl.
I remember after one nightmare Lefty had kicked a drunken bimbo out of his bed and onto the floor for the night so I could crawl in and curl up next to him.
He had whispered in my year, “Got to toughen up, baby girl,” kissed me on my head, and held me close until we fell asleep. Even my nightmares were afraid of Lefty. But I wasn't. So it never occurred to me as a teenager to fear Logan.