by Dawn Mattox
“Ms. McLane. As an employee of the district attorney's office who reviews criminal reports, would you agree that we live in a culture where it has become a social norm for perpetrators to cry “victim” as a justification for behavior; blaming their childhoods, blaming their addictions, blaming...”
“Objection! That calls for conjecture,” the defense attorney leaped to his feet. John Kingman was an elderly married man that never tried to hide the fact that he kept a twenty-something girlfriend on the side. He was a deplorable, rotten husband, but one heck of an attorney.
“Sustained.” The judge scowled at Amanda, who raised her eyebrows in mock innocence. “Strike that.”
“Humph.” She turned to me again. “Ms. McLane, in your line of work as an expert on the dynamics of domestic violence, would you share with us any contributing factors that might influence a victim to contemplate, and perhaps retaliate with murder?”
I launched into a narrative about battering and its effects—a newly litigated phrase for the previous battered women's syndrome—both of which refer to a victim's mental state from constant and severe physical abuse. The dynamic didn't change with the new terminology, just the application. The condition remains controversial but is legally applicable when considering the defendant's behavior in the matters of self-defense, provocation, insanity or diminished capacity.
I used to dramatize this dynamic for the jury by repeatedly stretching a rubber band to demonstrate that, “Everyone and everything has a breaking point if enough pressure is applied.”
Unfortunately, during this particular demonstration, the rubber band snapped, firing out of control and smacking Defense Attorney Kingman on the forehead... which was promptly followed by dead silence... then “It was an accident, Your Honor!” and “Order in the Court!” as the jury exploded into hysterics. The resulting red welt did not rise to the level of an assault charge, but I had proved my point in a memorable way.
Jack Savage formally reprimanded me—and then promptly gave me a raise. My model was disallowed in future cases, but the defense attorneys came to regard me with new respect.
The bottom line question and answer in this case, and for my own circumstances as well, is this: At what point does past trauma, cease to excuse present conduct?
I had seen Travis at Bob's funeral, but he had been working, and we’d distanced ourselves from each other. Monday morning was just another day in the life of the world. Business as usual in spite of the gaping hole left in the fabric of the universe by the death of Officer Robert Martel. Officials would later rename a bridge that spanned the Feather River in his memory.
It was past lunch and I was tired, hungry, and thirsty. Court had dragged on until the rumbling of the judge’s stomach could be heard from where the attorneys sat.
Although I teach on the subject of interpersonal violence, it never ceases to amaze me when I consider the devastating consequences that one person's choices can have on future generations. At work, this phenomenon is termed “learned behavior.” At church, it is called a “generational curse.” We know that boys who watch their dads beat their moms will most likely grow up to be abusers. But this guy, Aden Beltzier, had witnessed far more than domestic violence.
As a young boy, Aden had frequently sat in the back seat of the family car with his little sister, watching their drunken mother have sex with various men in the front seat. On the flip side, there were times he had watched Dad doing the babysitter on the sofa and an occasional barmaid being “served” on top of the bar. So it was no great shock when, as an adult, Aden swaggered home bragging to his wife, Pauline, that he had spent over one-thousand dollars of their retirement money on a one-night-fling at the infamous Mustang Ranch outside of Reno, Nevada, where prostitution is just another business.
What amazed Paula was that Aden actually thought his escapade would leave her dazzled and impressed by his masculine prowess. Instead, the whole incident backfired, leaving Paula feeling violated and furious, spewing a steady stream of fairly accurate profanities at Aden all the way to divorce court, where he took a swing at her in front of the judge.
Out on bail, Aden was facing either a fifty-two-week batterer’s program or up to fifty-two weeks in jail if the jury found him guilty. Why this case had even gone to trial instead of being pled-out was a mystery, except that every citizen has a right to a jury trial, and Aden was big on rights. But the hour was late, and the jury was half-past overdue for a lunch break.
We were crossing the parking lot to the sharp tap-tap of Paige’s stilettos clacking behind Travis, when the tap-tapping was buried beneath the scream of a hungry engine. Heads snapped around at the sound and I turned to see a monstrous black truck with custom flames wreathed around its grill wildly careening as it accelerated toward us at the speed of fear.
“Paige!” I cried. Jerking Paige by the arm, I yanked her from its path and slammed her to the ground like a WWF superstar as the force of the truck blew past. The air was rent with a resounding ear-splitting shriek as Aden’s Ford F150 tore its way through his wife’s little blue hatchback.
Paige came up spitting fire; palms bleeding, with a broken heel on her new shoe and her skimpy skirt jerked up to expose her thonged bare bottom to a stunned crowd standing outside of the courthouse. Clueless as usual, Paige failed to realize that she had just brushed death and that the drama was still unfolding as she struggled to rise on the broken shoe.
Crouching low behind a nearby car, I heard gunshots as Aden unloaded his .45 into the wreckage. Without thinking, I reached out and yanked Paige's one good shoe from under her, sending her back on her bare bottom as a bullet exploded through the car windshield, right where her empty head had been only a moment before.
Travis, who never missed a beat, drew his weapon and executed a smooth takedown on Aden.
“Put it down, put it down! Now! Drop it, now!” Travis drilled Aden in the arm, sending his gun flying across the lot and promptly pounced on him, doing a nifty “cuff him and stuff him” to a cheering crowd.
Or maybe they were cheering Paige’s indecent exposure. Hard to say which, in Butte County. Not that it mattered. Paige would never forgive me for saving her life in such an inglorious manner.
What mattered was standing up to see Paige rushing to Travis, sobbing. What mattered was that I couldn't hear what he whispered into her ear or forget the tender way he had brushed away her tears.
I have never seen Travis caught off guard. He always sees stuff coming: trucks, pit bulls, bullets, knives, plots, and threats. So I couldn't believe my eyes when his head ricocheted from the force of Paige's slap across his face. The man who is always in control looked paralyzed as he stood before a now-shrieking, anorexic blonde bimbo armed only with her tantrum and a pair of broken red stilettos.
“You crazy bastard! You rotten son of a bitch! I hate you! I hate you!” she screamed through her tears.
Even the arresting officers stopped loading Aden into the back of the cruiser to watch with interest as Paige drew her arm back to slap him again. Travis snapped out of his shock and caught her by the arm. Her hair was snarled and her dress still hiked half way to heaven. The local men were entranced by the spectacle. The women were shocked. I was disgusted.
“Paige! Stop it. It's over.” I shouted her down and the screaming stopped, but not the tirade.
“You let that guy run me down and shoot at me,” she shrieked at Travis. “She... she... of all people...” Paige sputtered, pointing at me. “You trusted her with my life?!”
Travis spun around and stalked back toward the arresting officers. I knew he would consult with them and carry on as if nothing had happened.
Mr. Tough Guy.
I was shaken and furious. “Psycho bitch! You’re fucking insane. I just saved your worthless life.” I growled, and she snarled back.
“I hate you! Almost more than I hate him.” Her voice shook with emotion as she tugged at her skirt, trying to cover what little remained of her dignity.
&n
bsp; “I should have let you die,” I barked. “I wish I’d pushed you in front of it... you ungrateful, lying skank!” People were still listening.
“Sunny! Paige! Ladies!” Amanda ran interference as she hurried us away from the courthouse. “Are you girls all right?” Amanda puffed from her short sprint.
“Fuck all of you! I'm out of here!” Paige swore with indignation, tears streaking twin tracks of mascara like so much war paint.
“Good! And don't come back!” My sin-ometer tank blew to pieces as I reached out to grab her hair.
“Stop it this instant!” Amanda caught my hand as Paige stormed off. “Let her go!” she commanded with complete authority. “Upstairs!” she ordered. And to Travis, who was returning to join us, “You too, I want you upstairs as soon as possible. My office!”
Angry and shamefaced, I followed Amanda back to her office where she promptly shut the door, passed me a box of tissues and took her seat.
“I am surprised and disappointed in you. Paige is still practically a kid. I expected more from you.”
Stung that Amanda would defend her, I spat, “I hate her! She has wrecked my life and I dispise her. I should have let her die.”
Amanda pulled herself upright and leaned forward. “Sunny, you are one of the most compassionate people I have ever met, and furthermore, you call yourself a Christian. I fail to understand that you have no sympathy for that wreck of a girl.”
“You don't know...” I started. Or maybe she does. Everybody knows. “She was put in my office to spy on me. And she had an affair with my husband.”
“I know, and I am truly sorry about your marriage. But let me remind you that this is a law enforcement agency and not a high school clique. What I do know is that ATF has given this office legitimate cause to investigate you. But it's not all about you. Paige is a part of this picture with a story of her own.” Amanda's brown eyes softened. “Girl, she was put in this office with hopes that this job, and you, might help her.”
“I don't...”
“No, apparently you don't.” Amanda leaned back without backing down. “That child has been through hell.”
“She's made my life hell!”
“Sunny McLane, you can listen to me, or you can talk to Jack. Which is it going to be?”
“Go ahead,” I mumbled. I didn't really have a choice.
“Paige's father is the assistant director of ATF's Intelligence Division. He was in Mexico vacationing with his wife when his thirteen-year-old-daughter, Paige, was kidnapped by a drug cartel right off the beach. Kidnapping is a regular industry down there. When her father failed to meet their demands, Paige was sold into sex-trafficking.”
The shock was a sharp slap in the face, and I drew back in disbelief, stunned by the impact of this information. I could only stare.
The moment was interrupted by a knock at the door, and Amanda glanced through her window into the atrium walkway. “Come in Travis,” she said. “I was just filling Sunny in on Paige's history.”
Travis pulled up a chair and sat down as Amanda apprised him of our discussion. “I can't believe that Paige—or you,” she looked pointedly at Travis, “have never told Sunny what happened to her. I thought that was supposed to be a part of her coming to work for us; to get counseling and therapy.”
“Why didn't she tell me about her past?” I demanded.
“Have you told Paige about your past?” Travis rose to the challenge.
“Travis.” Amanda interrupted, clearly irritated. “Are you done with Aden Beltzier, because I would like to finish up here?” Travis nodded in quiet assent.
“Good,” said Amanda as she repositioned herself, “because I need to speak with Jack about the Beltzier incident and I would rather omit the details regarding the conduct of my SVU team in the parking lot.” We sat as quiet as schoolchildren in front of Mother Superior. “As I was saying, there was a lot of political pressure on the Mexican government to intervene when Paige was kidnapped. Still,” she said, turning her piercing gaze on me, “it took months before Paige was finally located and they negotiated her return. ATF is still trying to bring down that cartel.”
“Travis. I don't know what I am supposed to say,” I said as we exited through the front of the county buildings. The back area was still busy with law enforcement taping off Aden's crime scene. “Why didn't you tell me about Paige?”
“What good would that have done?” Travis huffed. “Would you have forgiven her for what she did with Chance?” He slowed his pace so we could talk as we walked toward a bench near the upper lot.
I still thought Travis should have told me. “So tell me everything now. Please. And don't give me half of the story. I still have questions about Paige and about us. I deserve answers.”
Travis shrugged. “Go ahead. Ask.” He sat next to me but kept his gaze on the buildings.
“Okay. Let’s start at the beginning. Who is Christy?”
“Christy?” Travis turned to look at me, genuinely bewildered. “Who's Christy?”
“I saw that picture in your desk of a woman with two kids. It says, 'Love, Christy and the kids' on the back.”
Travis gave me an incredulous look. “You went through my desk?” he demanded.
“Screw you and the ATF horse you rode in on—after you invaded my privacy!”
Travis shook his head and then pulled a piece of gum from his pocket. He unwrapped the gum with slow deliberation and started to chew before answering. “Christy happens to be the wife of an old friend of mine. He died when we were in Afghanistan, the day before Christmas. I keep in touch with them. I visit them every Christmas and take toys to his kids.”
A long, uncomfortable silence followed as I took this in. If guilt were measured by the ounce, I'd be buried alive at the bottom of a mine shaft. But I didn't stop.
“And Paige. How did you two meet?”
Travis sighed, his expression open but impenetrable, like a coat of chain-link armor. “Her Dad got her a computer job at ATF. We started dating when I went undercover with Hells Angels. She thought I was exciting—what with my Aryan Brotherhood look and black Harley. She told me about her past, and I really wanted to help her. Be the hero. So I married her.”
“And?”
“Unfortunately, I married her victim issues along with her. So when we had the opportunity to work in SVU, we—especially her dad—agreed it could be a good thing.”
“She came to us from Chico State.” It was more of a statement than a question, and Travis just looked at me as if to say, “Haven't you been listening?”
I frowned, trying to get the whole picture. “So, Paige’s dad has a vested interest in guns that are going to the Mexican cartel?”
Travis nodded, and silence rushed in to fill vacuum between us.
“But you were divorcing Paige when you came here. Why?”
“She was self-medicating by having extramarital sex with everyone in pants.”
Work was over and employees were gravitating toward their rides home. “That must have hurt,” I said, “and yet you stayed near her and worked next to her. Why?”
“Because I love her.”
“And me?”
He half-smiled through pain-filled eyes. “I love you too, Sunny.”
CHAPTER 42
“Christians are nothing but a bunch of brainwashed idiots,” Starla raved. She’d lit the fuse with gusto and watched expectantly for me to blow.
I peered at her ravaged form through the safety rails of her bed, located on the fourth floor of San Francisco Medical Center, her expression pleased with her rebuke. She had been in the hospital for almost two weeks, and it was a good thing that it had overlapped with my leave of absence.
The time off didn't exactly feel like a blessing, but in a way, I suppose it was. The extra time allowed me to make the long, tedious drive to and from the Bay Area. I had been thinking about relocating Starla to a long-term care facility closer to home. Like the rubber band illustration I had used in court, I was stretched
to the breaking point. I was tired of pouring out my heart and wasting time and energy trying to be the good daughter.
When I had told her about Logan, the cache of weapons, being trapped with deadly rattlers and my subsequent stay in the hospital, she just looked bored. “You look okay to me. I need a cigarette. Sunny, you got a cigarette? Oh, that's right, you're too good.”
Today my fuse was short and the explosion that followed did irreparable damage.
“Everybody’s brainwashed, Mama!” I shouted back. “What’s washed your brain? Drugs? Alcohol? Disease?” My voice rose and temper burst from her constant vulgar and blasphemous attacks.
“At least my love comes from the God of the Bible, not self-worship—like you. And don’t try to tell me that your Hare Krishna and Yogi crap hasn’t brainwashed you,” I fired back with a stupid I'm-so-stoned face and jabbing the air with the two-finger peace sign.
“Yeah,” she drawled sarcastically. “I can see your love, baby girl.”
Starla would have none of Christianity. She said no more but gestured angrily toward the TV with the remote. That was sign language for “Shut your face, I’m watching the Wheel of Fortune.”
Stomping to the end of her bed, I turned the TV off and spun around to confront her again. Before I could open my mouth, Starla used the remote to flip the TV back on, ratcheting the volume high enough to rattle windows. Stung by her snub, I reached behind the television and jerked the plug from the wall.
“Look where it’s gotten you.” I was spitting mad and on a roll. “What do you hope for, Mama? In your next life the wheel of fortune will evolve you from whore to pimp? You’re dying!” My voice caught as I choked back a sob. “You have no hope of heaven and you are at the front of the line on the highway to hell!” The dam had burst; anger and bitterness flooded the room. Starla cursed, I cried, and nurses came running in to see what the commotion was all about. When they determined that another crazy Christian was at the root of the problem, I was promptly banned from the building.