by Dawn Mattox
“No, thank you. Erin, please, sit down.” Travis said, gently leading her to the sofa.
“That bad, huh?” Erin said flatly.
Travis and Erin sat down facing each other. “The incidents we investigated initially took place two years ago. We've been up to the property and interviewed the contacts you gave us, but frankly, everything happened so long ago that we’re not able to get the evidence necessary to charge Kevin.”
Did she even blink? Erin seemed to take the news in stride. “I just want him to stop coming around. Can you make him leave me alone? He just comes in the house and expects me to drop everything and drop on my knees and... I’m tired of it.” That was apparent. She looked exhausted.
As far as we knew, Erin had never verbally refused Kevin entry into her home or refused to perform oral sex. Neither had she called the police or made a report before visiting my office. This strong tough-looking woman was emotionally powerless to defend herself. She felt the hopelessness and helplessness that is typical of many survivors of abuse. I have known women who believe their long-dead abusers still have power to reach from beyond from the grave and “get” them. Not even death could stop those monsters.
“Do you have family somewhere that you and the boys could possibly live with?” I asked. “Somewhere far away?”—I hate re-victimizing victims by suggesting that they move instead of their abuser. If anyone should go anywhere, it should be 'Kev,'—and I was thinking High Desert State Prison would be an ideal destination. Although I had helped Erin file a restraining order, it was apparent that it wouldn't be worth the paper it was written on. She would never call the police to have it enforced.
Erin thought for a time and replied, “I got an aunt and uncle in South Carolina, but I don't have very much money.”
Three weeks later, Erin and the boys were packed and headed for a small town outside of Charleston, courtesy of Victim Witness and the State of California. I knew she would be safe there and that made me happy, but I still felt sorry for Kevin’s dog. Know what I mean?
“District Attorney's Office. This is the Advocate, Sunny McLane speaking.”
“Hello, this is Tom Aural from the State Parole Office in Oakland. I am calling in regards to”—pause—“Ms. Starla Alleyne.”
Alleyne? Hmm. Must have been Mom's last husband.
“I am Starla's daughter. How can I help you, Mr. Aural?”
“I am calling to confirm your mother's statement. She says that that you have agreed to co-sign for her apartment. Let's see.” I heard papers shuffling. “The apartment is located in the Port of Oakland. She stated that you will be paying the first and last month’s rent and the associated utility deposits.”
Silence. Stunned, I asked to speak to Starla.
“Mom?”
“Hey, baby girl! Isn’t it just too great? Your Mama got her old job back working at Johnny’s Bar!”
CHAPTER 25
“I can’t believe I am so stupid. How could I have lived with Howard for more than twenty years and raised three children together? Now, this?”
“Oh Laurel, don’t ever be sorry that you love someone. I’ve never met anyone completely evil.” Except maybe Logan. “It’s like this,” I went on to explain as we sat in a worn booth at a local coffee shop. I moved my toast from its small plate onto a napkin. Brushing the crumbs aside, I pointed to the round plate. “I want you to imagine this plate is a pie-chart,” I said. “We’ll call it your husband’s characteristics. Each segment in the chart defines a piece of his character.” I drew imaginary lines with my finger. “Let’s name the parts. Now, not all of these segments will necessarily pertain to your husband, but you’ll know which ones apply to Howard. Okay?”
Laurel dabbed at her eyes with a napkin and blew her nose before giving me her complete attention. I waited patiently, taking in her fashionably highlighted hair that framed her red-rimmed, pain-filled, forlorn eyes. She was somewhere in her late forties or early fifties and was dressed in an attractive outfit with matching accessories, even at this hour and under these circumstances. She had a refined, dignified manner. I thanked God that tears were the only visible injuries.
I always qualify my illustrations, using similar examples that I tailor for women from various lifestyles and backgrounds; “We’ll call this one Good Father; he provides for the children and has a relationship with them.” (Or he comes home after work and doesn’t beat them). “This next one is Good Son; his parents think the world of him. He never forgets their birthdays or anniversary.” (Even if he forgets yours). “This section is Good Friend; everybody’s buddy. They like him at work and always invite him to social events.” (Or, he gets asked to go bar-hopping and carousing with the boys). “Here,” I say, pointing to another section, is a Good Lover; he makes you feel good.” (Or sometimes, “He makes you scream like a porn star,” which usually gets a laugh). “Maybe, he’s a Good Provider,” I say, pointing to yet another segment of the imaginary chart. “He gives you a nice home, he meets the family’s needs, maybe takes the family on vacation.” (Or, pays the rent, goes camping, takes you to the Indian Casino and buys the beer). “Last, this could represent a Civic Leader, like your husband Laurel, a prominent judge.” (Or lead singer in a band, president of a gang, or a local activist who would chain himself to a tree).
“More coffee? Last chance.” A tired-looking waitress topped off my lukewarm coffee before offering Laurel another cup of tea. It was nearly 5:00 a.m., and she was probably ready for home and bed. I knew I was. But part of my job includes a willingness to meet the victim any time and any place they feel safe.
The smell of bacon and eggs sizzling on a griddle made my mouth water. Blue-collar workers drifted in, joking and ready for another long, hot day. I paused to contemplate the rough speech and good hearts of these hard working people as they teased the new shift of waitresses.
“You're not alone, Laurel. Fifty percent of all marriages and intimate relationships experience some level of domestic violence. There is nothing wrong with loving the good parts of your husband. Goodness is always worthy of love. It is a beautiful part of being a woman. But this part—”(I say this part to all women)—pointing at a wedge of toast, “this last part of the chart is out of control, and that makes him dangerous to you and your children.”
“You don’t know Howard. He would never hurt the children. He loves them,” said Laurel.
I wondered which of us she was trying to convince. “You need to know that children from violent homes are at fifteen hundred times greater risk for child abuse than children from healthy homes.” She paled at my words.
Laurel dropped her gaze and stared into the bottom of her teacup, lost in thought as she swirled and studied the remnants with all the intensity of a gypsy searching for answers. “What will happen next?”
I had received a personal 3:30a.m. wake-up call from Jack Savage on this one. Although Laurel didn’t have any injuries, Jack advised me that the officers found the living room looking “like a tornado hit it,” and kitchen appliances “smashed to pieces,” including a blender thrown through the 82” screen of the judge’s beloved, legendary home theater system. Thankfully their teenage children were at their respective athletic and educational summer camps for the economically privileged.
“This case will be referred to the attorney general’s office so the local DA doesn’t prejudice the case. Laurel, it has to stop now. You need to tell the truth about the abuse. If you choose to do nothing, then nothing will change, except the abuse will get worse. A third of all female murder victims are killed by their intimate partner. A man doesn't usually wake up with a plan to kill his wife. Tonight your husband threw the blender through the TV. Next time he might use it to bash your head, and then it’s Whoops! I didn't mean for that to happen. And the sad part is, it's true. There wasn't a plan. It just happened.”
I buttered my cold toast and let the information sink in. “I know this feels like the worst thing that has ever happened to you, but it doesn’t h
ave to be all bad. This could be an opportunity for a fresh start. If Howard really loves you and wants to keep the marriage, he’ll get counseling, and your lives will get better. On the other hand, if he hates you and intends to terminate the marriage, well...,” my eyes cut to the elegant gold cross she wore around her neck, “...well, God's plan for your life will never include being with someone who doesn’t want to be with you.”
Laurel was stunned. “Are you a Christian?” she asked.
“To quote the Bible: 'I am.'”
Laurel laughed softly, shaking her head at my attempt to lighten the conversation. She leaned forward. “Sunny, will you pray with me? Is it okay? You know, with your job?”
I studied my watch with great deliberation just as I had many times before. “Hmm? Okay, I'm off the clock... now!” I reached across the table and took her hands in mine. “Seriously, it would be my pleasure.”
We asked the Lord for safety, direction, and wisdom. Then we prayed for Howard; that the Lord might soften his heart and give him the courage he would need to admit his faults and ask for help. Lastly, we prayed for forgiveness, which was hard for both of us.
“Laurel,” I said, as she lifted her eyes. “I want you to understand that forgiving someone who has hurt you is a process, not an event. It may take time.”
Doctor, heal thyself. The old adage intruded into my thoughts.
“For tonight,” I continued, “let’s focus on where you will stay and be safe.”
Ultimately, every victim handles abuse in the way they perceive best. Women like Laurel usually break out their credit cards and recover in luxury hotels or go on vacation while they heal. Less affluent women frequently stay with family or friends.
Then there are those who have exhausted family and friends, wearing them down through repeated pleas for help, only to return to their abuser against everyone’s advice. Out of that rejected group, the fortunate women will enter a domestic violence shelter for a night or a week.
Unfortunate, ineligible women include those with sons over the age of thirteen, who are restricted by policy from many shelters, as are active drug users and the mentally disabled. Of these, some may be accepted into homeless shelters, and a few will be admitted into mental health facilities.
Then there are those without hope. Those who will commit suicide and spend the night in a morgue, and others who will kill their abuser in self-defense or retaliation.
Early morning sun filtered through the patio umbrella outside of Starbuck’s. Staying awake after the all-nighter with Laurel had been difficult, and I couldn’t ethically talk about it with Serena, the executive director of Rape Crisis because the case had no ties to her agency. We still had some time before the monthly SART (Sexual Assault Response Team) Committee meeting convened, so we relaxed over coffee taking in the freshness of the morning and tossing muffin crumbs to sharp-eyed little birds that darted about as if they had already indulged in a venti latte.
Serena smiled sweetly over her coffee, gazing and gauging as she analyzed me. Her once dark hair, now white at the roots against her bronze skin, backlit her face like a halo. Serena has a way of looking into your soul. She is one of those sweet, annoying people you can’t deceive, no matter how hard you try.
“I am so relieved that you and Chance survived the fires. I tried to reach you at work, and they said you were on leave.”
I stuffed a chunk of muffin in my face and nodded.
She continued her surveillance. “Then I tried to reach you at home, but all I got was a message machine.”
I explained with a full mouth, “Yeah. The fire.” I skipped over the 'Administrative' part of Administrative Leave. “I was busy packing in case I needed to evacuate.”
Serena tossed more crumbs, to the delight of the birds and other patrons.
“I tried to reach you on your cell phone, but you didn't pick up.”
“Paige was covering for me at the office.”
“That's funny!” Serena laughed at my remark. “Sounds like you are the one doing the covering,” she said with a knowing look.
I frowned, thinking a polite person should act as though they believe your lie, even if they don't. Now I felt defensive and resented her intrusion.
Completely unfazed by my sour expression, Serena continued. “So how are things with you and Chance?”
“There is no me and Chance. He's gone.” I kept my eyes on the birds, but avoidance didn't work. I could feel her reproving look boring through me.
“Has he gone somewhere other than work?”
Serena had to know that Chance and I were separated. The gossip grapevine is a short one, and ripe shop-talk about me had probably turned to wine by now.
It had been a rough morning, beginning with Jack's 3:30 a.m. call that ripped me from a dream where Chance was undressing Paige. It was just a dream, but it had dredged up insecurities that left me exhausted, crabby, and inclined to blame Chance for wrecking such a lovely morning after such a long night. It was going to be one of those days.
“He moved out, and he can go to hell for all I care.”
Serena remained unperturbed. “He’s still your husband isn’t he?”
My mind flitted around Travis. “I filled out divorce papers a couple of weeks ago.”
Serena cocked her head, pinning me with big brown doe-eyes. “Have you filed them?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Are you getting counseling?”
“Kind of. But he's the one who needs counseling, not me.”
“Why don’t you think you need it?”
“Because there's nothing wrong with me,” I said, defending my position for the millionth time.
“Sunny, this isn't about fixing him. That's his responsibility. This is about helping you. You must be hurting,” Serena said tenderly. “Are you two talking?”
Sigh. “Yeah, we talk. We talk about work, weather, politics... stuff.” Okay, we talk about personal things too, but that’s personal.
“Hmm... stuff.”
How does she make me feel guilty with just one word?
I get through work and manage to keep-it-together as long as I don’t have to talk about Chance. Talking about our marriage is like firing a cannon over an avalanche waiting to happen.
Now Serena had fired the projectile, and before I knew it, I was telling her everything. Okay, maybe not everything. I skipped the parts about my close encounters with Travis, but didn't have a problem giving her details about Chance's affair with Paige. After all, I thought, Chance brought this on himself.
A long quiet spell followed with me picking at a now tasteless muffin and Serena chewing on my story.
Serena wordlessly reached over and covered my fidgeting hands with her calm ones. Hers are praying hands. “Oh, Sunny,” she said from the depths of her heart. “Sunny.” Serena's eyes shone with love as she turned her gaze to heaven. “God surely does love Chance.”
My head snapped up in surprise. What? “What did you just say? God loves Chance? Just shoot me! You sound like my friend Ashley,” I said, jerking my hands away, tired of taking offense from people I love the most.
Serena didn’t respond. She was listening all right, but not to me. She was still looking up as if communing with angels.
Sometimes I almost find it in myself to forgive Chance—on my terms of course. It makes me crazy the way everyone leaps to his defense. If I choose to be magnanimous and bestow Christian forgiveness on my husband, I figure that is a plus on my heavenly scorecard and hotly resented anyone else forgiving him first. They weren't the ones who had been betrayed. They had no right.
“Forget Chance. What about me! A real friend wouldn't take his side.”
Serena turned to me again, looking positively radiant. Glowing. “Just think... God has given Chance another opportunity.” It was as if we were the only two people there. Serena seemed to shimmer and glow with love—or maybe something more.
“God has pulled him up from the filth of his lies, washed him of
f and given him white robes to wear.”
This was not what I wanted to hear. I wanted to hear, “Poor Sunny. Chance is a rat and God is going to punish him,” not reward him. A righteous God would smoke Chance with a lightning bolt or drive him into a sinkhole.
Serena’s voice broke through my vengeful fantasies. “Now you have an opportunity for a real marriage. One based on truth. God is so merciful. What a mighty blessing has come to you.”
My coffee became as tasteless as the muffin.
“Oh, my dear friend, “Serena said with tears in her eyes. “How can you go on hating a man whom God has chosen to forgive?”
I don’t remember the rest of the day. None of it seemed that important after the incident at Starbuck's. I might not always like the truth, but I have never been one to run from it. Sometimes I take it, like a dog worrying over a bone, gnawing on it for days or weeks. But sooner or later, I will digest it.
CHAPTER 26
As a native Californian, my DNA compels me to create, no matter how strange the creation. So it happened one bright Sunday morning, at my house before church, Ashley and I were busy making dog jerky for Kissme, Kobi, and Roca; mixing turkey burger with variety packs of Wild Gourmet dog kibble.
The labels were vague, leaving me to second-guess the exact ingredients behind the fancy labels. Salmon (probably included heads and fins), Buffalo (butts) and Wild Boar (could be jellyfish, since male jellyfish are called boars). It smelled like a mixture of slaughterhouse scraps and sun-ripened seafood as it whirred around in the blender. Something only a dog could love.
Ashley had read an article suggesting that under all doggy-fluff “beats the heart of a wild animal,” or something like that, assuring me that our creation would “bring out their inner wolf.”
Yes sir, if my little Kissme has an inner wolf, this will definitely bring it out. Although it smelled more like an impending exorcism. What I hadn't considered was the possibility that the jerky might bring something up instead of out.