by Dawn Mattox
“I ask you again. How is your husband employed, Ms. Crowley?”
“He's a contractor,” she replied audibly.
“And specifically, what type of work does that include?”
Maybe she won't need a cattle prod after all, I thought hopefully, although a few volts wouldn’t hurt.
Amanda's bulk, brass, and aggressive style are usually formidable enough to subdue people into compliance.
“Drywall and painting.” The defendant's voice returned to a whisper.
“Excuse me? Did you say drywall and painting?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And these pictures, taken at Enloe Hospital following the incident and arrest,” said Amanda, holding them in front of the victim, “are these pictures of you?”
The victim nodded, making another inaudible reply.
“We can't hear you. Please state your answer for the jury.”
“Yes.”
Amanda shot me a fiery look as she passed the photographs of Madison to the bailiff, who in turn, would hand them to the jury. The pictures were now Amanda's only hope for a conviction. Madison was turning out to be an impossibly uncooperative victim, and it fell squarely on me.
The pictures produced sharp intakes of breath from the female jurors and an equal but opposite exhalation of disgust from the men. Half a dozen glossies showed Madison standing in her shorts looking pathetic; dripping with paint from the top of her tangled hair to the soles of her Nike shoes.
According to her husband, Alan Crowley, she had “nagged him night and day for weeks,” complaining; “How come you can paint for everyone but me? My mother is coming and you can't even... you said... you promised... what is your problem?” until he “cracked” under pressure. He duck-taped her mouth and painted her with a roller brush—which was criminal, and then began caulking her ears and nose—which could have been fatal.
“Lucky it wasn't a homicide,” I mused as Travis leaned close, brushing against me.
“She's lucky the jury doesn’t kill her,” he whispered back, as Madison continued to mumble.
I sighed. “It's fear,” I whispered behind my hand, avoiding stern looks from the bailiff for talking in the courtroom. Travis nodded in silent agreement.
Having assessed her during previous interviews, I initially thought her quiet responses were a form of stage fright, coupled with a double dose of embarrassment and humiliation. Her husband had no history of abuse or violence. The jury would take that into consideration. The defense kept playing up the poor, exhausted man being nagged beyond his limits, whose actions did not result in physical injury.
The trial dragged on... and on... and on. You could see the outcome before the jury ever retired to deliberate the case. They were no longer frustrated or sympathetic. They were angry.
None of the myths typically attributed to DV cases were present. There were no drugs or alcohol to blame, neither was the defendant or victim impoverished, uneducated, or of minority status.
Ultimately, the seniors in the jury had missed their afternoon naps and soap operas. They were cranky and frustrated over their inability to hear testimony in spite of having their hearing aids cranked to the max. The younger jurors had been agitated, repeatedly glancing at their watches, upset over wasting a day in court when they had better things to do. Once again the jury reasoned: If she doesn't care, why should I? In the end, Al-Pal got a free pass.
My cases continued to reach and teach the vicissitudes of life in the strangest places, at the oddest of times. Turning over in the hospital bed, the soft, steady beep of a monitor seemed to resonate, helping me to understand Madison on a much deeper level. I related to the depth of her fear. Oh, God! How I knew the depths of fear! But that night in the hospital, I learned that survival mechanisms are rooted in the core of our being, and our response to threat is as unique as our individuality. Just because we cannot relate, doesn't mean we shouldn't respect.
I examined and reaffirmed my own fears; the depth of which no one else could plumb. Perhaps Logan had been right when he declared to his friends that he was “bullet-proof,” invincible and immortal. He will kill me if I testify, I acknowledged to myself. And if he can't do it personally, he will most certainly take out a contract out on me—just as he had done on my father.
CHAPTER 39
I am a crisis worker, an advocate. The one with all the answers, a fount of wisdom, a bedrock of stability. And yet, I was crumbling.
I had cried so much over the past two days that my tears had become like pets, so familiar that I called them by name. Left eye outside corner, Rage; the inside straight, Hurt; right eye center, Self-Pity. Whoops, there goes Remorse off the chin and on to the back of my hand.
It would have been better if Chance had let me die any one of the three times he had saved me. I would have been okay with dead. It would be so much easier now if he hadn't cried each time he faced the possibility of losing me. If only our passion through the years had not been so consuming or our love so deep. If only...
It was my third day in the hospital. Chance had arrived long after Travis had left and after I woke from Dr. Lance's sleep-inducing cocktail.
“I'm worried about you. You need to stop crying. This isn't like you.” Frustrated, Chance got up and paced the room, his cowboy boots drumming a restless rhythm that disrupted the quiet hum of the hospital.
“Don't tell me what I need.” Another day. Another confrontation.
I looked at him, wishing he had a giant ketchup stain on his shirt, a pus-filled pimple on his nose or something... anything besides the broken look on his face. Neither of us was making it easy.
“You worked with them, didn't you?”
“Who?”
“Travis and Paige. You knew they were spying on me all along.”
Chance turned away, his expression rigid and fixed, pushing his hands deep into his pockets.
“How does that go?” I asked him. “‘Hurt me once, shame on you. Hurt me twice, shame on me.’ Guess it's my fault this time.”
His shoulders drooped along with his gaze. He stood there, slumped in defeat.
“Well?”
“You've already got your mind made up. What is the point of my saying anything? You wouldn't hear a word.”
“I almost trusted you again. I almost...” The end of the sentence hung there in the air, unspoken, but not unheard.
“Everything I've done, I have done for you,” said Chance.
“Like when you did Paige?”
Chance chewed on his lip. “You know... you have never let me be your husband. That was my job, but you hid your past and refuse to let me protect you in the present. Paige is your problem now. You and I can never move ahead because you will never let go of the past. You will keep her alive and between us forever.”
“Your working in some grand undercover scheme with Travis and Paige is my present, Chance. And since when is telling me to 'Go be with Travis because I deserve a good man,' while you're screwing his ex, a part of the sheriff’s protocol?”
If it were possible to slam hospital doors, Chance would have rocked the building. Instead, all I heard was an excruciatingly slow sigh, like the final wheeze of a dying man, as the door closed behind him.
My friends returned in full force: Regret cascading down one cheek, Resolve marking the other. My leg didn't hurt at all compared to the emotions wreaking havoc in my soul.
“I hate men,” I said to no one. I really hated men right then. All men. They all lie, they all deceive. They are all the same; Lefty, Logan, Travis, Chance. Not a trustworthy one in the bunch.
Only God was left, and I am pretty sure, contrary to popular belief, that “He” is both male and female. After all, I reasoned, Adam was created in God's image, and God pulled the female half out—my point—dividing him into two people instead of one, leaving poor Adam only partially reflecting God's full image and the woman reflecting the other parts. Both sexes forever divided and forever in search of their counterpart.
I am going to enter a convent and surround myself with nuns, I thought with a sense of relief. And if I ever see another man, I will strangle him with my rosary! Nice fantasy, but of course what I really hated at the moment, was my life.
Emotionally spent and desperate for the respite of sweet sleep, I sank deeper into my bed, feeling as if I were being sucked into a black hole.
Not really, I admitted as I let go. I didn't exactly hate all of my life. What I really wanted was for none of this to have happened. What I really longed for, was a sense of “normal.” I have always hated being different.
“God, I wish I was normal,” I whispered in despair.
I am just the freak offspring of a Hells Angel that fornicated with Earth Mother.
Somewhere from the vast galaxy of inner space, I heard the Holy Spirit speak. “You might have been a surprise to your parents, Sunny, but you were no surprise to Me.”
“Lord, you are the only thing in my life that has any worth,” I declared. “If you are angry with me, I am sorry. Whatever I have done, I am sorry. Please take my pain away.”
Exhausted, I let go, falling into warm dark arms of sleep.
“Sunny. Sunny? Wake up, Sunny.”
I woke with a start to the dim light above my bed creating a halo around the kindly face of Dr. Lance.
“Ready to go home?” he asked.
I was more than ready. I had never felt so alone. There had been one short visit from Shane and Ashley, and Ashley had promised to return to take me home. Two more long days had followed without hearing from Chance or Travis. I desperately missed my dog, my house, and my bed.
“I was going to stage a breakout if you didn't let me go.”
“Well then,” he chuckled, “you will be pleased to hear that your ride has arrived.”
An hour later I was discharged from the hospital and sitting in the car next to Ashley.
I told her everything on the drive home: the good, the bad, and the ugly. I couldn't help myself. I needed to get everything out. Men and women were created to be perfect opposites. Men keep their own counsel, “suck it up” and swallow their pride. But I am a woman and women look for answers; in magazines, groups, self-help books, TV talk shows, and girlfriends. Females understand the need to reach out.
So I told all to Ashley as she drove, quietly absorbing the information. This is never a good sign. When Ashley is supportive, she engages. When Ashley is silent, it means she saving up to download on me later, and I probably won't like it.
She helped me into the house, propped me up with pillows on the sofa and put the teakettle on to heat. Kissme, nearly hysterical with joy at our reunion, was barking and spinning in circles. She can't really help herself; she is a Pomeranian. And a blonde.
Then came the judgment seat as Ashley dragged over the high wingback chair and positioned herself in front of me. I knew this was coming. This was so Ashley.
“Chance was right, Sunny. You never should have gone up there alone. That was really foolish.”
Her words stung. The truth always hurts.
“And you never should have gotten involved with Travis, much less told him that you love him,” she said, reaching to hand me a cup of tea. “Even if it is true. You're a married woman, and you were acting like a high-schooler.”
“Yeah. What was I thinking?” I asked, rolling my eyes. “I actually thought I had a shot at marrying a man who might be faithful. I thought maybe, just maybe, God would give me a break. Well, you can stop worrying about Travis, Ash. I know better now. Men are all the same. They are all cheats and liars.”
It was Ashley's turn to wince. “Shane doesn't cheat or lie,” she hastened to defend her husband. “And anyhow, God hasn't betrayed you. You just need more faith and patience. God will work this out for good. He is faithful.”
Shooting her an incredulous look, I fired back, “Not all of us were lucky enough to grow up in a perfect little churchy home. You had perfect parents, the perfect childhood, and now you have the perfect little marriage. God knows you are the perfect little Christian, and I am not.
“God let me down, Ash.” Disappointment swelled the lump in my throat. “He dangled hope in front of me and then pulled it away, right when I was beginning to believe that I could lead a normal, happy life. Where's the faithfulness in that?”
Yeah, I loved God, but I had to blame someone. If I didn't blame God for my miserable life, it would just be bad luck. And when you trust to luck, God never gets the credit for the good.
“Oh, Sunny.” Ashley was by my side. She wrapped her arms around me, holding me tight to keep me from falling apart. Then she turned my sad face to hers. “You need to listen to me. You just need faith and patience. God hasn't left you, and neither will I.”
My first day back to work and there was a voicemail waiting from my boss, Jack Savage, directing me to meet him in his office at 10:00 am.
Jack's office, much like the investigators’ intentionally uncomfortable interrogation chairs, is similarly designed for psychological impact. Something about the towering bookcases, the flags standing at attention at his right and left shoulders and the President of the United States frowning down from the portrait hanging directly behind his head as if confirming his every word.
During the meeting, Jack made it abundantly clear that I was legally obligated to respond to the subpoena Travis had served me. Simply put—I would lose my job if I failed to show up for court.
Part of Jack's cooperative agreement with ATF had included putting Travis undercover in the district attorney’s office. Savage slipped him in as an investigator with the Special Victims Unit, and the arrangement proved beneficial for both agencies. This was Jack's spotlight, his center-stage moment. And Jack-the-DA thrives in the spotlight. The successful seizure of the stolen weapons stockpile would probably get him reelected several times over.
Both Travis and Paige had been placed in SVU for the purpose of getting close to me and finding out what I knew, who I knew, and the degree of my involvement with both the gun deals and the bombing of the Mongol clubhouse.
I would rather be waterboarded than sit across from Jack another minute, I thought, as he delivered his intimidating speech. I squirmed at the idea that he knew I had sex with Travis.
It was degrading to imagine Travis and Paige watching my every move. How many times had they watched me scratch myself, pick my teeth, palm a tampon and run for the bathroom, plus a zillion other unmentionable acts?
“Are Travis and Paige really married?” I asked Jack.
He paused for a second. “They were practically divorced when they came here.”
“Isn't that a little weird?” I asked.
Jack shrugged. “Her dad thought Paige might benefit from working in victim services, and I agreed.”
“Her dad?” That sounded pretty informal like maybe Jack knew him personally.
“Yes.” Jack cleared his throat. “He’s with ATF.”
“You look a little uncomfortable,” I said. “Are you uneasy talking about your political relationships?”
Jack scowled as politicians will do when caught in the fudge zone: responding with an air of righteous arrogance. “This discussion isn't about me. I know the facts behind this investigation and assume it may be problematic for you, but I need an answer. Given the circumstances, are you able to continue your work here?”
I stared. “How much did Chance know? Was the sheriff's office part of this operation?”
Jack fidgeted again. “We had operational agreements with both ATF and the SO.”
“How convenient. One big happy family.”
“I'll ask you one more time,” he warned. “Can you continue in your professional capacity as an advocate, or not?”
I didn't want the next meeting, but I needed to hold one of my own. Like Jack, I decided it was best to have it on my turf. I needed my own answers and spent the day steeling myself to receive them. I had invited both Chance and Travis to my office and had Paige make the arra
ngements. I doubted they would miss my not-so-subtle implication.
Dressed in a conservative suit with my hair swept up, chunky jewelry and pointy heels, I was all business. Eyeballing the clock as the countdown-to-meeting ticked away the minutes... only a couple more to go.
The phone rang and I answered in my best professional power-voice.
“Special Victims Unit, this is the advocate, Sunny McLane.”
There was a long, hard silence. Then, “You're mine, bitch!” The line went dead.
I dropped my jaw and dropped the phone. It was dangling off the edge of the desk, still spinning in erratic jerks of insanity at the end of its cord beeping a signal to hang up the receiver just as the guys walked in.
Travis did what he always does. Surveying the situation, he took immediate action and began tracing the call without a single word to me. Chance walked in behind him and did what he does best. He asked for an explanation, assessed my condition, and headed back to the sheriff’s office.
The call was traced to the jail. It was Logan's first day out of the hospital. Transported and booked into the facility, he was given the standard “one phone call.” He used it to call me.
Later, he would tell his attorney that he had said I was a “fine bitch” instead of “You're mine, bitch!” He said he had called me because I was still his wife and he was still in love with me. If Logan had not been spawned a dirtbag biker, he would have made an excellent dirtbag attorney.
Was there a contract out on me? What was I supposed to think? Say? Do?
Travis suggested the Witness Protection Program.
Chance voted for the Husband Protection Program.
Dr. Lance renewed my prescription for Xanax.
Jack Savage insisted that I take another extended leave of absence. After all, it wouldn't look good to have his star witness end up DOA in an election year.