by Dawn Mattox
The crimes kept piling up. It was time to take a break and go get Travis, but I didn’t want to break the flow of her story. When in doubt, wait it out. Patience really is a virtue. I reached over with an encouraging smile and touched her arm.
“One time, I guess he was gone about three days. He came back and the kids were crying and I was crying. My hands were raw from trying to get the damn chain off my neck and off the stupid tree. Well, Kev, he comes back and just looks at us, and you know what? That monster just laughs and goes in the house. He comes back out with one frozen hot dog. He throws it to me and he says, “You decide. Eat it yourself, or give it to the kids.’
I stared hard at Erin, waiting and wondering. I knew that Starla would have devoured the entire hotdog and counted herself lucky that he’d thrown it to her.
True to her word, my mother's old biker friend, Sheena, called to tell me that Starla was on her way home. She was being paroled back to the county of origin.
I made up my mind to see her. I wanted to hug her, and I longed to help her. There was so much to say, so much to share. I left home at 5:00 a.m. to make the four-hour drive to the Bay Area and the Oakland Greyhound Bus terminal. Once there, I haunted every inbound bus looking for my beautiful flower-child mother. Somehow, I picked her out of the crowd as she stepped off the bus, but not without a double-take. She was barely recognizable.
“Mom? Mom! It’s me, Sunny!” I cried out, bouncing on my toes to see over the heads of bleary-eyed travelers who milled about as they funneled off the bus.
Drug enforcement had found Starla living with two of her kids in a meth lab. They charged her with manufacturing, sales, being under the influence, child endangerment, possession of an illegal firearm, and resisting arrest. Due to an unlawful search and seizure, they dropped the manufacturing charge, but she was sentenced on the sales, being under the influence, and the illegal firearm she had kept by her bed. The child endangerment charge was dropped when the children became permanent wards of the state.
“Sunny? Sunny, is that really you?” she croaked as she made her way through the crowd. “Oh my God. It really is you!”
I gaped, mouth open wide. Surely this creature was not my mother!
She looked fifty going on a hundred and fifty; anorexic with sharp, sunken features on her once soft, radiant face. Starla had circles under her eyes and several jail tats on her arms and back of her hands. Her hair was cut short, spiked, and sticking out about two inches all over her head. Her once velvet voice was raspy and hoarse from smoking—everything.
“Wow, I can’t believe you’re here, honey! You got any money? I'm starving.”
She nervously smoked a cigarette as we walked down the street in search of a sit-down restaurant. The least I could do was feed my mother. Starla ordered a hamburger, French fries and a Pepsi for breakfast. I had fried eggs, home fries, and sourdough toast. Stuffing her pockets with sugar packets from the condiment selection on the table, she asked about Frito and Lefty while we waited for our order.
“Frito’s gone, Mama,” I said, with a tug on my heart. “Lefty’s gone too.” I told her about the shootout down in Laughlin and all the bikers who had ridden in Lefty’s funeral procession; possibly one of the largest funeral escorts in biker history—after Sonny's, of course. Starla seemed to half-listen as she inhaled her sandwich and picked at her order of biggy-sized fries. When she was through eating, she wiped her hands and finally looked up.
“What happened to Frito?” she asked flatly.
Memories pressed down like a pillow on my face, trapping emotions in the back of my throat as I struggled with the gruesome details. “Logan just took Frito and... there was this old cardboard shoebox wrapped with duct tape...”
Tears started from Starla’s eyes, but I never knew for sure if they were for Frito or Lefty. The only thing I was certain of, is they weren’t for me.
“Mom, are you going to be okay? Do you want to come home with me?”
“Can’t.” She sniffled, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. “I got to meet my parole officer in the morning. Got to stay in Alameda County. Get a job or somethin’. You got any money I can borrow?”
I dug around in my purse while she stuffed the rest of the toast I was still eating into her purse.
“I hope this helps,” I said, pressing everything but toll money I would need for the bridge into her hand.
“Won’t hurt.” Starla counted it twice before rolling it up and stuffing it into her bra. Maybe she was worried about getting robbed.
“Where will you go? I worry about you, Mom. Don’t you know where you’re going to stay?”
Starla hugged me. “Don’t you start worrying about me now, baby girl. I’ve taken care of myself this long without your help.”
There was something odd in her tone. Is she blaming me? It sounded as though her current situation was somehow my fault.
It is hard to find reconciliation when your head is at war with your heart. I knew this was typical addict behavior. Users rarely take responsibility for their own actions. They usually play the blame game. I wasn’t prepared for how much her tone hurt. After all, she had left me when I was just a kid. I was the one who had the right to be angry.
CHAPTER 24
We had yet to talk about the kiss on our trip to Feather Falls—not to mention being lured from the office under false pretenses. Dodging Travis wasn’t possible, so I put on my best most professional demeanor and managed to catch him on his way back from the sheriff’s department.
I advised him that I had Erin Moeller waiting in my office and led the way quickly to where we would spend the next two hours getting dates, locations, and additional descriptive details on other men who had assaulted her. Then we all walked back down to the sheriff’s office to use its thermal infrared imaging camera to take pictures of a faded ring of possible scar tissue that was still visible around her neck. Travis told Erin there would be further investigation and we would be in contact with her. I suggested she obtain a restraining order, lock her doors, and call 911 if Kevin showed up.
“Hey, how about some dinner? I'm starving.” Travis asked me as we walked back up the hill along the dirt path that led to the parking lot. It was already dark except for the LED lights that bathed the jail in light.
His casual attitude chafed like a thong wedgie. I thought he at least owed me an apology after breaking his promise to maintain a platonic relationship.
“You should be in jail eating baloney sandwiches!”
“In jail?”
“Kidnapping is a crime as I recall.”
“Kidnapping?” Travis laughed with delight—and what was that look?
“You're a pig, and I hate you.”
Travis laughed harder. His eyes fairly danced. “Okay, I've been called a pig before. What cop hasn't? But I didn't expect to hear it from you,” he added with a trace of disappointment.
“I'm not laughing,” I said indignantly. “You are a pig. You forced yourself on me!”
The smile dropped, and Travis tensed. The air between us palpably charged. Eyes narrowing, Travis took me by the arm and pulled us face to face, almost lip to lip. “Which time?”
“I hate you!” My voice lacked sincerity.
Travis held on, his body pressed closer. “I think I love you,” he whispered fiercely.
Somewhere in the friction that sparked, flames ignited, smoldered, caught; then blazed, consuming and devouring the very air between us. Lips found lips. Hands reached out for that which did not belong to us. We kissed as if dying of hunger and feasting on the sweetness of forbidden fruit.
The sound of distant voices shattered the night. Officers were scrambling to their squad cars and jumping in. Sirens broke the silence, dousing our passion like ice water tossed in our faces—or lower. Strobe lights flashed in bursts of red and blue, lighting the sky as they sped away on their mission.
Was it divine intervention once again? Oh. My. Gosh.
Silence fell between us except
for the sound of heavy breathing, sweet and hot, mingling in the night air as we attempted to regroup and figure where we’d go from here.
A different kind of hunger won out. We drove to The Depot and soon found ourselves working on soup and salad, trying to act nonchalant.
“Erin's story hit close to home?” Travis already knew the answer.
It was hard to focus on his question with the candlelight flickering between us, casting shadows that danced across his handsome face and turned his eyes into luminous cat-eyes. They were enchanting, and much as I tried to avoid them, I couldn’t resist a furtive glance—or two—as my vagrant mind resurrected images from the escapade at my house. I tried to focus on his words and failing miserably, my eyes slipped to the tiny button that lay nestled in the hollow of his throat.
I stabbed at my salad mindlessly. The food was good, but I had a hard time swallowing as my mind undid the button, reached in and touched bare skin; hard, smooth and oh-so desirable. I recalled his scent and how he’d looked when leaning over my bed in the midst of a raging wildfire.
I swallowed. The real world wasn’t nearly as pleasant as my imagination.
“Yeah.” I shrugged. “I don’t want to talk about Erin,” I said dismissively.
“Then let’s talk about you. It’s your past, isn’t it? Let’s talk about your past.”
I drew back with pinched lips, upset that he wouldn't give me a pass. He kept comparing me to every SVU victim we had. Or at least, it felt like it.
Leaning across the table, Travis ran his hand along my bare arm. “I wish you’d trust me, Sunny. You know how much I care about you. I want you to tell me everything about Logan. You know better than anyone that talking about a problem is the first step in healing.”
“Stop it! Listen. I took you to the cabin against my will. You got what you wanted, now give it a rest.”
Travis leaned back and picked up his fork. “I'd like to give him an arrest,” he said emphatically, “followed by a substantial stretch in prison. But even if he were arrested and found not guilty, you’d still need to talk about happened between you.”
I rubbed my temple, frowning. “Why are you always pestering me about Logan? Who are you?” I asked him again.
“I am your friend,” Travis assured me, “and you telling me what’s going on is the only way I can help you. I am an investigator. Think about it. Please? Trust me.”
We continued our meal in silence. The main course arrived. Halfway through it, Travis checked back in with me. “You all right?”
“I'm still thinking about it,” I said irritably, although that wasn't entirely correct. I was also thinking about Chance and the observations he had made only a few days earlier. I concluded that Chance was right. I was a closed book to everyone in my life.
I knew that Chance couldn’t protect me. He was right when he’d said we didn’t even live together. Chance's idea of helping me would likely result in Logan's death—or more likely—his own. What I needed from Chance was his steadfast faith, knowing that I could tell him everything about my past and he would still love me. What the future held for us as husband and wife, I didn't know.
Maybe, I thought as I finished dinner, it was time for me to begin trusting the same system that I advocate for my victims. Maybe, just maybe, trusting Travis the investigator wasn’t such a bad idea after all. But to do that, I would also have to trust Travis, the man. That was altogether another issue. The conflict was giving me heartburn. Folding my napkin with care and setting it to one side, I started talking.
“You asked if I was okay? I don't know how I am,” I answered with calm defiance, narrowing my eyes and leaning forward. “It depends on a couple of things. What exactly are you protecting me from? And just how do you plan on protecting me? Do you plan on arresting all two thousand club members? Because you and I both know that is the benefit of being in a motorcycle club of 'one-percenters.' The old one-for-all and all-for-one thing.”
Travis leaned forward once again as we prepared to go head-to-head and toe-to-toe. I could see the green in his eyes darken several shades as he tightened his focus.
“They're not above the law. There are a lot of bikers in prison. You know that. So why not start at the beginning?” Travis set the bait, and I snapped it up. He was really ticking me off.
Taking perverse pleasure in his challenge, I pushed back from the table to arm’s length, kept my chin high and head tipped to one side, eyes and voice level. I began at the beginning. “Once upon a time I was born in a cabin with no electricity and no indoor toilet. My mom walked out on me to 'find herself' when I was ten. My dad brought Logan home for my sweet-sixteen birthday party where I was drugged, date-raped, and married the next morning—shotgun style—to Logan by a biker named Preacher. Hmmm. Let. Me. See. What else turns you on?” I demanded. I felt my face tighten and nostrils flare. Anger churned up and boiled over.
“Oh! I know! When I was seventeen Logan arranged for my gang-rape at Sturgis, most likely by a rival gang. Is that the dirt you’re looking for? Need more graphic details? My father, to his credit, beat the crap out of Logan and put him in the hospital for months. Sadly, he didn't kill him. Then I turned eighteen we celebrated Logan's happy homecoming from the hospital. That was the night he taught me about sodomy. It left wounds my dad couldn't see.
Then... Logan lured my father into a gun deal that went south and got him killed. You liking this? Taking notes? Wearing a fucking wire?” Shaking with anger, I gave a rude brush-off to a waitress who’d stopped by with a smile and left in a hurry.
Travis looked ready to snap, his face tight, elbows propped on the table with one fist crushed in the other. Eyes unwavering, I could see much of my pain reflected in his. But I didn't stop. I couldn't stop.
“What? You want more? How about torture and recreational rape? You want to hear about my dead baby—asshole!”
I jumped up, threw down my napkin, and stormed out of the restaurant. I waited by the car, shaking, in shock at what I had just said and how I had said it. I dried my eyes, wiped my nose, and kept my head high. Travis came out a few minutes later, visibly shaken as he unlocked and opened the car door for me.
We slid into the car and sat in stony silence before I turned to him with an accusing glare. But Travis wasn’t looking at me, he was silently staring over the steering wheel into the night. Streetlights poured through the windshield illuminating the glistening track of a single tear that slid down his face.
“I'm... sorry.” His apology came as soft as a caress. He looked genuinely remorseful as he put the key in the ignition.
“Mom.” We hadn't talked in years, and this wasn’t going to be easy. Not your usual mother-daughter conversation. “Don’t go yet. Please. There’s something I need to tell you.”
Starla pulled a pack of generic cigarettes from her purse. Shaking one from the half-empty pack, she fished out a lighter, lit the cigarette and took a long drag before saying, “You’re pregnant.” She exhaled a chem-trail. “Right?”
That was an ice-breaker. “No, Mom.” Long pause. Another deep breath. “I want to talk to you about Jesus... and what He’s done for me.” Not that He had done all that much lately, but I was trying hard to get back into God's good graces.
“Really.” She snorted. “Is that all?” She leaned back and took another long pull on her cigarette and blew the smoke out defiantly. “Well then, baby girl, tell me—just what the hell has he done for you?”
Okay. Good question. That wasn’t so hard. “Well... ah, God has forgiven me for all the bad things I’ve done in my life,” I began lamely.
Starla laughed. “Sure, baby. I’m real happy for you” she said, reaching over and patting my cheek. “Gotta go. I’ll call you when I get a number.”
Then she was gone, walking down the dirty sidewalk headed for God knows where. It wasn’t until somewhere around Sacramento that I realized Starla couldn’t call me if she wanted to. She didn’t even ask for my phone number.
Travis
and I had another undeclared truce as we danced around each other at the office. But nothing got past Paige. She dropped off the morning police reports. “Trouble in Paradise?” she asked with feigned innocence. To my amazement, her snarky comment was followed by a second-thought and a “Sorry,” before she left the room.
In return, I passed several cases that required follow-up back to her. She could go with Travis and deal with victims without my supervision. I needed a break.
But Erin was my case. Okay—our case—Travis and mine. Over two weeks had passed since Erin had been at the office. When the time came, Travis brought the car around and we drove to Bangor, a rural agricultural community located about twenty minutes south of Oroville.
From the beginning, Erin exhibited behaviors that typically lead to a quick acquittal for the defendant. I wondered what kind of mental health drugs Erin was taking. Statistics report that as much as three-fourths of all domestic violence victims are either on prescription drugs or self-medicating with street drugs and alcohol.
Erin’s flat affect and emotional shut down were responsive behaviors. In effect, when the car overheats, you turn it off. Before the tub overflows, you close the tap. The brain works in much the same way. This is a tough concept for juries, and it doesn’t endear victims to prosecutors either. They conclude, “If she doesn’t care, why should we?”
Travis and I were invited inside Erin's very small, very neat little house. I asked about the children as we walked into the living room and she said they were at a church Summer Fun program. Little Jake was going into second grade, and Tyger would start first grade in the fall. She politely offered us cold drinks.