by Dawn Mattox
And me? I skipped the meeting idea and went home, locked my door, poured a glass of wine, and loaded my gun.
So now my boss and I have a love-hate relationship. He hates paying me to stay home, but is thrilled that I am his election miracle. Talk about job security!
Ashley came over and stayed with me for three days and three nights before Shane showed up with some lumber, tools, wood fillers, and a can of paint. After checking in to say a quick “Hello, how are ya?” he went straight to work, banging and sawing, as he repaired the damage done to the front porch by Logan's shot and CSI gouging the bullet out of the doorpost.
Shane's thoughtfulness made me cry. More tears came when he announced, “Sunny, I spent the last four hours fixing your house because I love you. I am taking Ashley home with me because I love her. Chance has an extra room at his place. It would be a good idea for you to use it for a while.”
He saw my tears.
“I talked to him, and everyone knows it's for the best. He loves you, Sunny.” Shane is a man of contrasts. He is as rough as a grizzly bear with the heart of a teddy bear. He knows how to stand his ground and bend his knee. He can be sharp as a sword and blunt and a baseball bat. I love Shane. His eyebrows and the corners of his mouth all turned up in sincerity. “Chance is an ass, but he never meant to hurt you. You don't have to make up with him, just don't be stupid and stay here alone. You don't need to be dead to be right.” Then he kissed me on the forehead, gathered both his tools and Ashley and they headed home together.
I wondered why it is that everyone thinks they know what is best for me, yet it always comes out sounding like what is best for them.
Ashley is my forever friend, but there are times when she is like sand in your shorts, a rock in your shoe, poison oak on your...
Still, annoyances are temporary, and love is forever. Her heart is gold, her laughter music, and her love genuine.
It was Sunday afternoon a week later, and I was still alive. Logan was in custody, and I finally felt safe enough to venture outdoors. Maybe part of the plan for killing me included making me stir-crazy enough to lure me outdoors, because I had to either go outdoors or shoot myself.
Ashley and I talked as we power-walked the dogs down Nelson Bar Road, past the flocks of sheep and traditional ranch houses that grace the oak-studded foothills. More accurately, Ashley was power-walking her dogs, and I was power-limping as I carried mine.
“No, no! Don’t tell me. Let me guess!” I said, stopping to gasp for air. It is hard to think with oxygen deprivation. “You sold a piece of toast with a picture of the Virgin Mary on it?”
“Nope,” said Ashley, beaming and laughing. “That’s already been done, except it was a picture of Jesus on the toast.” She frowned thoughtfully adding, “But I’ll keep a lookout for Mary.”
I hoped she was joking. We both laughed and kept walking until we were out of breath. Okay, until I was out of breath. It didn’t take long. Ashley is always eating healthy foods and working out. I am into easy foods that are mostly healthy and enough exercise to keep me not-fat.
“Seriously, I got a bottle of pins and screws,” she said, wearing her I-did-it-again smile. “I could retire on this one.”
“You could retire any time you want, sale or no sale.”
“I figure,” Ashley said, rolling her eyes towards her think-tank, “I’ll start the bidding at $1,000.
My eyebrows narrowed. “What aren’t you telling me? I already know whatever it is, is weird, just by the look on your face.”
Her smile got bigger. “Evel Knievel! I got the screws from the aluminum plate in his right arm after he bent the plate and broke some pins in his elbow. I have to do my homework before I can auction them,” she said, tapping her head. “I'm not sure if they’re from the time he landed in the box of rattlesnakes, jumped the aquarium full of sharks, or rode through the mountain lions. It was one of his animal things.”
Good thing Evel Knievel was born again.
“Anyhow, they had to rebuild his arm with all new plates and pins. I got them from a guy who came into the shop and told Shane that he won them in a game of five-card stud with Evel Knievel back in the day,” she said with a wave of her hand.
“Let me guess. His bike was a broken Harley?”
“Well, yeah. We own a Harley shop! Besides, Harley endorsed Evel Knievel.” Ashley hated to admit that they might be prosperous because Harleys are notorious for breaking down and expensive to repair.
Kissme was wriggling in my arms, so I put her down, and we started to walk again, slower this time so Ashley could finish her story.
“And you got this stuff from him, how?”
“He traded them to Shane for mounting his new tires.”
“And you got them from Shane, how?”
Ashley blushed and smiled. “I have my ways.”
When we headed back up the hill toward the truck, she asked about Chance, and the conversation turned somber. Chance and Shane had ridden their bikes down to San Jose for a Promise Keepers convention, returning yesterday, elated. There is something powerful about three thousand men gathering for three days of worship, supporting one another and rededicating their lives to God’s plan for marriage. I was happy that Chance and Shane had maintained their friendship through our break up, but I kept thinking about the hypocrisy of Chance going to a Promise Keeper's meeting; pretending to be something he was not.
“Ashley, I need to tell you something.”
There was a pregnant pause before I continued.
I talked with Pastor Mac about my marriage, and he said that Biblically speaking, I have grounds for divorcing Chance. I've had divorce papers filled out and sitting on my desk all summer. I think it's time to file them.”
Ashley raised one eyebrow to heaven and flat lined the other in a look of exasperation.
I instantly regretted my decision to confide in her.
Here comes da judge.
“What do want me to say? Are you looking for validation to get out of your marriage?” She pinched her lips and frowned. “You're not a baby Christian anymore. You know right from wrong, and you knew what I would say before you ever told me.”
Ashley must have sensed my disappointment. She slowed her pace and stopped to rest in the shade of an oak tree. “I'm sorry. Life doesn’t always turn out the way we want. They say the way to make God laugh, is to tell Him our plans. Seriously, I will say this:
You have to choose to either live by your convictions or live by your feelings like the rest of the world. I can't tell you what to do.”
That was a first.
CHAPTER 40
Early in my career, I learned that one-sided stories are just that: One-sided.
“Those stupid cops didn't even arrest him. Did you see what he did to the house? That hole in the wall could have been my face! He threatened to shoot me, and the cops didn't even care,” Gala ranted, furiously waving her arms to emphasize the severity of her situation. She was outraged, and rightfully so. No one had taken her seriously.
Considering that domestic violence makes up one-third of all violent crimes in our county, little four-foot-something-in-platforms Gala had my full support. The bottom line in my work is the certainty that violence, without intervention, will always get worse. I intended to show the responding officer that he might be able to intimidate Gala, but he wasn't going to intimidate her advocate. It was past time for a change! It was time local law enforcement learned to be proactive instead of reactive. They needed to do their job and protect and serve, not just wait around for someone to get hurt, or worse. I was personally going to put an end to the redneck, good ol' boys network.
Flushed with righteous indignation, I stormed down to the sheriff's office. After all, Gala’s husband had been drunk, punched a hole in the wall and made verbal threats. Okay, he had never been charged with a violent crime, and there was no history of calls or complaints from the victim. But this is how the cycle starts.
Going to the criminal win
dow in the lobby of the sheriff's department, I demanded to see the officer who had responded to the call. The buck stops here! Whatever that means.
Minutes later, I had been taken back for my first ever meeting with Officer Robert—AKA Crazy Bob—Martel.
Declining the offer of a chair, I squared off in front of his desk, keeping the introductions to a minimum to emphasize that this was anything but a social call.
“My name is Sunny McLane, and I am the victim advocate from the district attorney's office. I represent Gala Burton who called you last night asking for protection. Her boyfriend, Michael Hyatt, was threatening to shoot her.”
Bob leaned back with a thoughtful nod. “Umm-hmm,” he responded.
I carried on with my sanctimonious tirade about ethics and his inept performance in failing to protect Gala. “The report indicates that you only charged the suspect with being drunk in public. That is unacceptable!”
Bob nodded again, still saying nothing but continued to carefully evaluate and analyze me as he sat there. I know this because I do the same thing for a living.
“Gala said that Michael will be released this morning and he will probably be home in less than an hour. Is there a reason you failed to charge him with making threats? Or at the very least, since it happened on the weekend, issue an emergency restraining order? My victim is in extreme fear for her safety because you minimized her danger. Michael has threatened to shoot her!”
It’s true, Gala had told me that Michael didn't own a gun, but he could always borrow one.
Bob sighed and looked at his watch. How rude! Was he brushing me off? He stood up.
“Come on. Follow me,” was all Bob said as he walked off down the hall and through a maze of offices with me in tow.
Disoriented at first, it took me a minute to realize that we had stopped in a room directly above the visitor's reception at the jail. Bob walked to the large window that overlooked the parking lot and motioned for me to join him.
Suspicious, but curious, I stood next to him searching and seeing nothing. “Nice parking lot,” I said with a full measure of sarcasm.
He smiled and said, “Wait here a minute.” He turned away and walked off to pour himself a fresh cup of coffee from an urn sitting on the counter.
I waited, scowling and drumming my fingers impatiently, seeing nothing more than a blue jay pause in a tree to make a deposit on a car. The silence was broken as the doors beneath us were thrown open, and several inmates, visitors, and one harried-looking attorney exited the building. My eyes narrowed.
There was Gala, looking like she was joking around with Michael as they walked amicably, hand-in-hand to a small, beat up, used-to-be-red car. She got into the driver's seat, and he slid into the passenger seat. A minute later, they drove away.
Bob was back, peering over my shoulder. “Humph,” was all he said before leading the way back to his office and his chair. Once seated, he leaned back again and asked, “Anything else?”
I was dumbfounded. Totally embarrassed. I might as well have had the word rookie tattooed on my forehead. “No,” I said, in complete humiliation. I started to leave and then stopped and turned back. “Yes,” I stated as an afterthought. “Why only 'drunk in public'?”
Bob shrugged. “He hadn't done anything I could arrest him for. He was drunk, in his home, on private property. I got him to follow me out to my car and and then arrested him for Drunk in Public. It was the only legal way I could get him away from her.”
Shaking my head at Bob’s brilliance and my stupidity, I threw him a charming grin. I had learned a valuable lesson about one-sided stories. “You are good,” I said with a wink, and headed back up to my office.
The next day I sent him a dozen donuts and a gift card for Starbucks. It was the beginning of a long and close friendship.
Rocket is a flaming-red two-pound terrorist that lives in my neighborhood. Every time Kissme and I walk to the mailbox, we have to cross Rocket territory.
Rocket’s owners aren’t very sympathetic. In fact, they stand on their lawn and laugh as I reach down to rescue Kissme who trembles every time the teacup Chihuahua runs bristling and snarling onto the road. He might have been funny except for the nasty row of little spikes in his mouth and my bare legs in sandals.
Rocket’s Mama is pretty, although it is almost impossible to look her in the face without fixating on the two large hoops that pierce her lower lip, the matching mini-hoops lining the rim of each ear, and the large silver tongue stud that has a reptilian way of darting in and out when she speaks. She is a young, freckle–faced redhead who reminds me a lot of Rocket. No amount of smiles at the Dome Store or “Hellos” at the post office ever resulted in more than a snarl.
There are always kids in their yard, ranging from diapers to about five and they are usually running amuck like a litter of frolicking puppies. I used to think Rocket’s mama ran a day-care, and in a way, I guess she does. So, I was completely surprised when she showed up on my doorstep.
“Hello. Kissme, hush! Sorry. Uh, how can I help you?”
“Hi, I’m your neighbor. The last house on the road?” she said, pointing down the graveled road. “My name is Jolene, and I’m a friend of Ashley’s. She said it was okay for me to come here.”
A friend of Ashley's?
Folks often wonder how people in my profession keep their sanity while working every day in the world of violence and victims. One way is by setting firm boundaries that include never bringing your work home with you. Instantly upset with Ashley for violating the sanctity of my home, I stepped outside to speak with Jolene on the front porch.
“How can I help you?” I asked again.
Jolene looked nervous as she glanced back down the driveway. When her head was turned, I considered the tattoos on her arms. I know jail tats when I see them. But I also know the look of a frightened woman when I see that, too.
Suddenly I felt guilty for not inviting her indoors, but I didn't want to risk her casing my house and possibly breaking into it later when she needed a fix or blazing a trail to my door for her possible addict boyfriend to follow.
Being a Christian isn't always comfortable or safe, so I led her around to the back porch for safety’s sake and asked her if she would like something to drink. I was thinking of coffee or maybe a soda and I wasn't too happy when she said, “How about a beer?” I am not really a beer drinker myself, but I like to support Chico and usually keep some Sierra Nevada brews on hand for special occasions.
“I hear you're a Christian,” said Jolene, tipping the bottle and taking a long swig of Chico's finest.
Thanks, Ashley! I thought with a mental grimace before putting on my plastic Christian happy-face. “Yes, I am.”
“I'm... hiding from Tanner, my boyfriend. I was wondering... can I stay here? With my baby? He’d never look for me here.”
If I were a Catholic, I would have had to go to confession for the unchristian thoughts stampeding through my brain. Then I recalled something Pastor Mac had said after church one Sunday: “That's what the 'meat of the word' is; Action. When the Bible talks about baby Christians getting the 'milk,' that means they are learning the word. But 'meat' is putting the word into practice.”
“Let's talk,” I said. I needed the details to determine the seriousness of Tanner's threat.
I knew the battered women's shelter was probably full over the weekend, and of course, it was Sunday so no one would be available from Catholic Ladies Relief to get a voucher for a hotel room. Maybe, I thought, I should send her up to Good-Samaritan Ashley's for the night.
“He threatened to kill my baby,” said Jolene, opening a second bottle of beer.
Why did I bring out the whole six-pack?
Okay. Now I took Jolene seriously. “Exactly what did Tanner say?”
“He said he's going to take the baby for a ride and throw him out of the car and tell everyone it was an accident.” Jolene began to cry, so I brought out the standard issue of tissues from the house.
I did a quick threat analysis. Tanner had a plan and the means to carry it out. I asked her where the baby was now.
“He's got him. He'll do it. I've never seen him this mad. He's always been so good with the kids.”
I patiently got the names and ages of the children. They were all with their dad, and their dad had been drinking all day.
“No, he doesn’t beat the kids. Much. Once in a while.”
Not good.
It took a long time to convince Jolene to let me call the police. Maybe she was starting to accept that both she and the children were in need of protection. Maybe it was the third and fourth beer. The reason didn't matter, but I had to do something because she kept spinning those rings through her lip with her tongue and it was making me sick. Nervous habit maybe, but when my stomach started to loop in time with her hoops, I left to call the sheriff's office. The dispatcher, Kelina Morgado, immediately dispatched an officer to respond, along with Gina from Children's Services.
Another beer and Tanner's life history had been detailed with expletives that mostly included four-letter words, none of them nice, until the sheriff's car rolled into the driveway with my friends and associates, Crazy Bob and Gina.
I summarized the situation to Bob, providing him with Tanner’s history with the kids, the threat level, and Jolene's statement that he had done jail time for drugs. Nodding his head, Bob left us to pay a call on Tanner. Jolene was in tears again, and Gina was her incredible supportive self as we tried to reassure her that everything would be okay. Both Gina and I knew that we weren't completely honest. Sometimes things are never okay again.
After what felt like an eternity, Crazy rolled up the drive again. To our utter amazement, he opened the door and stepped out with a snarling Rocket in hand.
“Baby! My baby.”