by Dawn Mattox
I shuffled the pictures on my desk into a pile to indicate that our meeting was over. Travis reached over and took the pictures, placing them back into the folder. “We'll talk more about the other incident later.” He said as he rose to leave.
Other incident? Would that be you and Chance, or us? It was awkward.
“Sunny, your 3:00 o'clock appointment is here,” said Paige. She had one eyebrow arched like a cat ready to strike, with a matching half-curl on the opposite side of her mouth. “Travis, got a minute?” she asked in a velvety tone. They left the room together.
I called Gayle at the front desk and asked her to hold my appointment for a few minutes.
Then I slid the postcard out and studied it again.
CHAPTER 34
“Go away. Just go away.” Carissa looked like a fashion statement. Nineteen years young, she was a slim woman with dark blue eyes and radically textured brown hair shot through with hot pink highlights.
The men at the office, however, failed to notice her hair when she showed up wearing a midriff top cut above her short-shorts. Her pants were unzipped and laid wide open in a V, revealing what appeared to be an absence of underwear in front, and a pair of thong straps riding high above a pair of sweet cheeks in the rear. A fake diamond accentuated her bellybutton, and a tramp stamp marijuana leaf was inked across her low back in shades of red, purple and green.
Everything about her walk, talk, and pheromones exuded a message that even a dead man could read. Except for today. Today her finely modeled face had been hand-hammered by her former high school boyfriend, a construction worker that left her with lips that rivaled Mick Jagger’s.
The University police was working with Chico P.D., and together, they made seven arrests for the gang rape of this young woman. Her abuse had been posted on a very popular, highly questionable website, and now the hunt was on for her missing boyfriend.
Carissa was just another freshman university student wanting to be accepted by the most popular young people on campus. She had been excited at the prospect of attending her first frat house party—and Carissa loved to party. Lots of booze and hooking up with cute boys afterward was her “normal.” But what happened to her that night, was anything but “normal.”
Date-rape drugs are frequently manufactured in bathtubs. They have no odor or color and I knew firsthand how they affect the body and mind. Some of them are like a giant memory eraser. You literally never know what hit you. Or in this case, who hit you. You might wake up without a trace of remembrance, but you would know with certainty that you had been grossly violated.
Carissa had become a target the moment she entered the party looking eager and sexy in her come-and-get-me outfit. Before the night was over she would be on a mattress in the basement with seven men and a webcam; streaming live rape. Thanks to modern technology, if you missed the first part of the crime you could replay it, watching it over and over as the young men took turns with an incoherent Carissa. It was the most frequented video ever to hit campus.
Unfortunately for Carissa, her former boyfriend, Jach, coarse drug dealing, drug using muscle-bound roofer, who had not been invited to the college party, also saw the video. It didn’t matter to Jach that she had been the drugged victim of gang rape. It only mattered that other men were doing his girl for the entire world to see. Jach found her the next day and brutally beat her for being a “ho.” When a girlfriend took Carissa to the hospital and details of the rape and subsequent beating came out, the hospital called the police.
“I am not going to go away, and neither is this. You’ve already been the victim, now it’s time to hold the perpetrators accountable,” I said, restlessly tapping my pen against her very thick file. “They need to go to prison for what they’ve done.”
Carissa began to cry, and I handed her a box of tissues.
“I don’t want everyone to see it,” Carissa said, referring to the jury who would see the video entered into evidence.
I bit my pen, holding back the thought that this was coming from a girl who seemed to want everybody to see everything. Moreover, I wasn't going to remind her of what she already knew—that the video had already been seen by hundreds, if not thousands of people on the internet.
“I’ll be there with you,” I assured her. “You won’t have to go through this alone.”
Carissa looked up. “I talked to a woman at Rape Crisis who said I don’t have to do this at all.”
Sounded like Marne to me. I have found that disagreeing with people puts them on the defensive and it is aways wiser to begin by agreeing.
“You don’t have to be here, Carissa,” I told her in all honesty. Then I added; “I just want to help you get justice.” Then I qualified my statement. “We both care about you. It’s just that Rape Crisis and I see your situation in different ways.” Now... drive it home: “The other advocate... Marne?” Carissa nodded. “Marne believes that you can walk away from your problems and put them behind you. She sincerely believes that memories will fade with time.”
Carissa looked at me. “You don't think they will?”
“I think Marne was once a victim who now uses pain and anger like two strips of Velcro. That is holding on, not letting go. I don’t believe a person can truly heal without justice.”
Carissa looked me in the eye. “Can you promise me justice?”
I was thankful that Logan had left the scene before Chance and Mercy arrived at the house. I didn't want anything bad happening to them because of me.
Travis arrived a short time later with several squad cars and a helicopter that swept the forest canopy with powerful searchlights.
Logan always gets away, I thought with a taste that rivaled cold, leftover sauerkraut. He slithers through dark places like slime in a horror movie, and then, Poof! He's gone. For a while.
Carissa’s words were but an echo of many women before her, and it had been my question for Chance just days ago.
“Can you promise me justice?” I had insisted Chance answer when he interviewed me at the station after the shooting.
The question upset him. His brows knit together as he tried to read me. “Why are you asking me that?” He was terse, knowing that I understood.
“Can you?” I demanded angrily, frustrated because I really did know.
Chance’s gaze never faltered. “Not this side of heaven,” he’d replied.
I’d held Carissa's gaze. “No,” I told her truthfully. “I can’t promise you justice. But I can promise you your day in court. I can give you an opportunity to hold your head high before a jury, look them in the eye and tell the whole world what those beasts did to you. That is your strength, Carissa. Not what the defendants say and not what the jury decides, but what you say and what you decide. That is your healing.”
“What if they don’t believe me? What if the judge just lets them go?” she asked.
She looked so vulnerable, so... innocent.
How many times had I stood outside of the courthouse after a ‘Not Guilty’ verdict and held weeping women in my arms? I can’t count the numbers, but I always reassured them, dramatically looking at my watch to make my point.
“I’m off the clock now, so I would like to say something on a personal note.” They would look at me expectantly. “As long as we have juries made up of humans, there will always be human error. For myself, I believe in God, and I think there will come a day when your abuser will be held accountable and perfect justice will be served.”
The impact of that statement has always amazed me. The gratitude that survivors would show because I shared this spiritual truth still warms my heart. It’s a God-Thing.
Carissa didn’t look like she cared a whole lot about spiritual truths. But, you never know. The Bible says that the Holy Spirit is like the wind; we never know where it will go or whom it will touch. Timing is everything.
“Some people get away with crimes,” I answered honestly. “But it’s not very likely in your case.”
“Yeah, but wha
t if they do? What if I go through all this for nothing?”
It was a fair question. I gave it my best shot. “I believe in divine justice. As long as juries are made up of imperfect people, they can always render a flawed verdict.”
She frowned, her etched brows visibly bitch-slapping each other over my reply. “What's that supposed to mean?” She fumed.
“It means that I can't promise you a guilty verdict, but I can promise you this: If you do nothing, they will go free.”
It was Labor Day which is the complete opposite of everything Chance and I had in mind. For us, it has always meant Recreation Day. We would pack up the truck, boat, dogs and camping gear, and then head to Eagle Lake for the last days of fishing before fall.
When Chance came to my office and tentatively asked if I would like to go, I tried to look as if I needed to check my calendar. In truth, I couldn't say “yes” fast enough. I had to put aside my quest for justice for the weekend. There simply wasn't any room left in the camper for unnecessary baggage. If I wanted burdens, I could stay at work, I told myself. I was going on vacation!
Okay, maybe I am not all that noble. Looking forward to a weekend with Chance was mostly true, but it was also true that I was afraid of Logan coming back to finish me off. Ashley and Shane were going on a motorcycle run, and I had turned down an invitation to have dinner with Travis only hours ago. More dangerous than Logan, I had joked to myself, so I told him I already had plans for the weekend. Travis had stiffened, his velvet tone edged with steel. “Sooner or later we need to talk.”
That was true. It’s just that talking was not high on the list of all we would do.
The high-country always provides the three R's; not the usual relax, refresh, and renew. For Chance and I, it meant rods, reels, and romance.
We launched our old aluminum fishing boat instead of the Chris-Craft showboat. Maybe we were looking to recapture our early years, where we had camped and the way we felt. Out on the cold, crystalline waters of Eagle Lake, basking in the late summer sun, we found ourselves talking about justice. Which led to divine justice. Which resulted in...
“Really, Chance. Don't you believe most religions are all pretty much the same?” That's what I thought. Or hoped. Especially for non-believers.
Chance knows a lot about religions and is a committed Christian in spite of himself. Anyone who believes in reincarnation and knows Chance would have concluded that Chance was a Christian in his past life, too. That is how deep his faith goes and is one of the things I cherish about him. Chance loves the Lord. He never tires or acts ashamed, awkward, bored, or embarrassed when talking about Him.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” said Chance as we trolled along the edge of the lake, the little motor purring with all the satisfaction of a cat with well-trained owners. We settled into a private cove feeling as if we had the whole lake to ourselves.
“It's like the story of the three pigs. They all built houses from different materials. One straw, one wood and...?” He looked pointedly to me.
“We built ours on the Rock,” I finished. “So what are you saying? That houses of worship serve the same purpose, but are built on different foundations?”
“You got it,” said Chance as he reached over and cut the engine. “Ready for a story? There's an allegory that makes it easy to understand.”
I love a good story, so I hurried to do the icky part of baiting my hook with half of a night crawler and watched in disgust as it break-danced on the point. They say it doesn’t hurt the worm to halve them, but either that is not true, or it’s a girl worm excited over her 50% weight loss. I hoped she would keep on dancing when I cast her out and then settled back to listen.
Chance also cast his bait into the water, not far from mine. Then began his tale.
“A man was on a journey when he fell into quicksand. He was waist-deep and screaming for help.
“Confucius came along and looked at the man's condition. Thoughtfully stroking his beard, he advised, “Confucius say, you should avoid such situations,” and walked on.
“The man struggled and cried out for help again.
“Buddha heard him and arrived soon after Confucius left. Seeing the desperate man, he offered his sage wisdom. “Let this be an illustration for us,” he said, before he too, walked away.”
Chance slowly reeled in both the bait and me.
“By this time, the man was freaking out. He knew the end was near and kept thrashing and screaming. Sure enough, Mohammed came to see what was going on. He solemnly observed the sinking man and determined, “It is the will of Allah,” and went on about his business.”
I waited in anticipation as Chance finished reeling in his line, then watched as he cast farther out, in deeper water.
“Hurry up,” I said, knowing he would take his time, whetting my appetite for more.
He smiled, dimpling, his eyes reflecting both the intense summer blue of the sky and the subaqueous purple of the water. He finally continued the story.
“By this time the man was chest deep in the quicksand. The more he struggled, the faster he sank. Just then, Krishna happened along. Krishna put down his flute and sadly shook his head over the man's situation. Then he brightened and offered words of encouragement.
“Better luck next time,” he said, and left the man to his destiny.”
I leaned forward expectantly, and Chance returned my smile. My pulses quickened as I took in the color of his tanned skin that mirrored the color of the earth, tousled hair as flaxen as the leaves on the slopes as they prepared for fall, and eyes that sparkled liked the diamonds the sun had cast over the alkaline water. I knew I was still in love.
“And?” I demanded. “Come on.”
“Well... by now”—Chance clearly enjoyed the telling of the story as much as I was enjoying listening—“the poor man was up to his eyeballs without any hope at all. He was gagging as mud filled his mouth, but somehow he managed to croak out one word: ‘Jesus,’” Chance choked the word with his hand at this throat. “Jesus heard his name and was instantly at the pit, waiting. The man has just enough breath for one... last... word: ‘Help,’” Chance whispered. “Immediately Jesus reached out, grabbed the man and pulled him from the filth that was sucking him under.
“Then Jesus said, ‘Come. Live.’ Jesus took the shirt off his back and wrapped it around the man, but he didn’t stop there,” said Chance. “He went on to give him food, water, and rest before they continued their journey—together forever.”
A rainbow trout leaped from the water, splashing and spraying us with water. Chance whooped, reeling in a trophy-size fish while I sat in silent wonder.
Chance was all aglow. “Isn't it beautiful?” He demanded.
“Yes,” I replied softly, watching his every move.
“Have you ever seen anything like it?” His boyish joy was contagious.
“No,” I said, as I continued to stare at him. “And the fish isn't bad either.”
Chance packed the fish into the livewell and turned to take me in his arms. Removing my hat and sweeping my hair back, he held my face in one hand while softly tracing the lines of my mouth with the other. I could feel his breath, warm on my skin. His lips brushed mine leaving me dizzy. “I love you, Sunny,” he whispered, holding me close as he kissed the world away. No boat, no Logan, no Travis or Paige. Just us.
The weekend was perfect, starting and ending with a kiss and nothing more sexual in-between. We walked to the edge of the lake at sunset and stayed there until the stars came out. The wind breathed the promise of autumn, crisp and cold as it swept down from Mt. Lassen's snow-capped volcanic rim and the other soaring peaks that look down on Eagle Lake. Chance grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around the two of us. We huddled until the stars glittered with cold and the lure of a warm campfire called us back.
That night, we crawled into the camper that Chance had mounted on the truck. I slept in the cab-over, and he slept where the table converted into a bed. Kissme, bundled in doggie pajamas,
burrowed under my covers, and Mercy lay on a huge dog pillow on the floor next to Chance.
We made it back by Monday afternoon, and I helped Chance unpack. Then he drove me home. I got out and thanked him, said “good-bye.” He got out and came around and pulled me into his arms. His face radiated love and his eyes brimmed with peace and happiness. “That was the best weekend ever,” he said, and kissed me again. Softly, this time. Less sure of himself.
It was Tuesday morning, and I sat at work, more upset than frightened by the audacity Logan had shown by sending me a postcard in care of the district attorney's office. The card was large and glossy with a sweet little Chihuahua wearing a colorful sombrero beneath the caption, “Greetings from Cancun.” The little dog's left eye had a burn mark that resembled a cigarette-burn. On the back, written in a familiar hand, was written, Hotter than Hell, wish you were here. The card didn't need a signature for me to know who had sent it or what it meant. The words on the card were a veiled threat. Not a crime, but typical of his blatant contempt for authority. Throwing the postcard in the trash, I sat rooted to my desk, trying to sort my thoughts from my feelings.
Someone is going to die. I acknowledged this with a start as I considered that all of the men in my life were experienced killers. Chance and Travis were both fully trained to handle outlaws like Logan. But then, Logan didn't fight according to the U.S. Military’s Rules of Engagement. He was a killer too. I paused to correct myself. Logan was not a killer. He was a murderer.
I didn't want either Chance or Travis dying in the line of duty, taking a bullet that was meant for me. I loved both men, each in his way, and if anything happened while I sat by and did nothing, it would be my fault. Justice is not limited to a courtroom, I told myself. Sometimes, you have to take matters into your own hands.