by Dawn Mattox
“School starts on the first of the month.”
I think he kept talking; something about “mercy and calling,” or “calling Mercy.” Whatever. I couldn't reconcile the words with the person, the time, or the place.
How could I have been so wrong? I wondered. Wasn't this dinner supposed to be his attempt to win me back? Wasn't it part of his master plan for us to move back in together?
I had felt secure as long as I was the one controlling our relationship. That Chance might move on without me, never entered the vanity of my heart.
“Sunny? Are you listening? Sunny?” His mouth framed the word “listening,” but all I heard was “leaving.”
“I want you to come with me. I know this sudden and unexpected, but I've been thinking a lot about it these past months. I know”—he touched my arm reassuringly—“it would mean giving up your job... might be good... you’d be safe... get a fresh start...”
CHAPTER 46
Travis escorted me from the courtroom and across the busy parking lot of the federal courthouse in downtown Oakland.
As we walked, I noticed a long line of Harleys. Bikers had ridden in spite of the threatening rain. Perhaps their hot tempers and blistering stares had kept them warm. So far, I had managed to avoid harassment, threats, and physical assault from Logan's MC Brothers. But Logan is a patient man. Whether he gets years on death row or life without parole, he will have a long time to dwell on revenge.
The trial lasted for weeks but felt like months. Kept secreted in a safe room down the hall from the courtroom on the days I testified, I only appeared when called to the stand. Logan sat there looking like a choirboy in a tailored suit that covered his tattoos, wearing a GQ haircut and a timid, hopeful smile that charmed everyone but me.
His high-priced low-life attorney was probably paid by influential people in drug cartels; those who had a vested financial interest in seeing Logan walk. According to Travis, there are still large caches of money and guns stashed away somewhere.
Logan's attorney reminds me of Satan dishing out dessert, and the ever-liberal Bay Area jury was lapping it up.
Kidnapper or Lover? That is the question they ponder since Logan swears that I went up to the cabin for the purpose of seeing him, and later visited him in jail because I was still in love with him.
The guns are another matter, and the bombing may never be proved since ATF Agent Wild Bill is not alive to corroborate my testimony, and Logan's testimony has left “reasonable doubt” as to my relationship with him and the events. But the Mongols, the Bandidos, and probably members of Hells Angels who loved Lefty, have their own agendas with Logan. Whatever actions they might take, remains to be seen.
“What now?” I asked Travis, having made peace with him in my heart. He was right. He is a damned good investigator. I sometimes wonder how things might have turned out between us under different circumstances.
“Now might be a good time for you to reconsider moving to higher ground,” he said as we reached his car.
“Higher ground, huh? Mountains aren't high enough?” I laughed and then shuddered as I turned to him. “Travis? There's no way Logan can walk on this, is there?”
Travis sighed, his brows pinched with concern. “Not likely, but he might walk on some of the charges. And he can still enter into a plea agreement—guilty to some of the charges if they drop others.”
“How can that be?”
“You know the game, Sunny. He's saying you came up to the cabin for love, Agent Barros was investigating an open shelter, and the snakes were just a tragic but natural consequence of living in the woods. There's no proof that you were ever locked in the bomb shelter. The door was open when we arrived. And they are saying the weapons belonged to Lefty. That's the position the defense is pitching.
For a moment, the ground moved underfoot, and it still wasn't an earthquake.
Travis took me by the elbow to steady me, saying, “One of Logan's buddies, Lester the kiddy molester, has produced a doctor’s report showing that he, Lester, was bitten by a rattler in the shelter just a few months ago. His friends will testify that they knew the shelter was a rattlesnake den and wouldn't go near the place. That's why the guns hadn't been sold off.
“Listen, Sunny, besides his scum buddies, you've probably noticed that Logan has a lot of powerful and influential friends.” Travis frowned. “You should seriously think about moving.”
We got in the car and started to drive across town. I tried to think it through.
I choked up, thinking back on Alawa Rose. “You don't understand, Travis. There is nowhere to go. This is my home. I was born here. I don't have any family. Where would you send me?”
We stopped at a red light. Pulling his Oakley's down on his nose, Travis studied me, his green eyes flickering before responding. “Away.”
Silence.
“Away?” I repeated, frowning in irritation, “Away where? This is who I am and what I do. I am the one who didn't want to testify. Remember? Now I'm not even safe in my own home.”
We locked eyes and Travis had the faintest smile at the corners of his mouth as he offered, “You could move into mine.”
I smiled back, reached over and kissed him softly on the cheek.
Lord, he is a temptation.
“Have you been to a doctor?” I asked Paige. “You don't look well.”
“I'm fine,” she snapped. “I just wish I wasn't so fat.”
I bit my lip. “That's not fat, Paige. It's a baby—a little person.”
She shrugged in resignation. “I know. It's just... I don't know if I can do this.”
I went over and sat next to her on the office sofa. “I am sorry you have to go through this. But you don't have to go through it alone. You can find out who the father is and tell him,” I gently offered.
Paige looked at me with an air of desperation. “You don't understand,” she said. “This baby is mine. I want someone who will love me without judging me.”
“God loves you, Paige. He doesn't care about your past. He just wants the same thing you want.”
“What do I want?”
“A relationship based on unconditional love.”
She gazed at me for what seemed like an eternity. “If I can't handle it—the whole motherhood scene—will you take my baby and raise it?”
The irony didn't escape me. Paige, who hated me for being a Christian, wouldn't trust her child to anyone else.
“One day at a time, Paige. You don't need to make that decision yet,” I said with an encouraging smile. “It’s enough that you have decided to carry the baby to term.”
“Look at that, Sunny,” said Chance. “Out there,” he said, pointing toward the distant hills still bathed in the shadows of a new morning. He was dressed in a red flannel shirt and denim pants and finally taking a break from the job of cutting and stacking firewood in preparation for his departure and the upcoming winter.
I had been sitting on Chance's porch stroking Mercy's head, reading random passages from the Bible that Chance left lying in his chair. It was a new day and my heart filled with peace. The coffee was hot, but the Word, I thought, was stronger than a triple latte, sweeter than mocha, and more enduring than a venti double espresso.
Laughing at my own silliness, my eyes strained as I squinted into the distance. As if responding to a divine cue, a large bird soared into view, silhouetted against the brilliant fingers of first light that fanned across the ridge tops.
“Is this a Pastor Chance message?” I teased. “You know you're going to have to change your name to Pastor Positive if you plan on building a church. Pastor Chance sounds a little risky.”
Looking back, I wonder at my shock about Chance's dream of entering the ministry. I guess I had been so busy thinking about me, I had forgotten to listen to him as he shared his love of leading the men's group, doing Wednesday night Bible studies, and ministering to others. Saving people is where his heart has always been. I was learning to see, accept, and respect him in a
whole new way.
Chance laughed with the good natured easy laugh that has always defined his character. “This is a test,” he said. “And you know what they say: Behind every test lies a testimony.'”
“Okie-Dokie, Preacher Man. Give me a clue?”
Chance got that inspired, spirit-filled look he always gets at times like these as he pointed to the bird. “Eagle or buzzard?” He asked.
At first glance, it is almost impossible to tell them apart. They are both masters of the sky.
“Can't tell yet.” I was waiting for the bird to get out of the sun’s glare. You have to get close to see them for what they are. The face of one is hideous and terrible, and the face of the other is noble and majestic.
Chance’s eyes glistened with excitement. “Stay with me on this. The eagle takes its live catch and soars up into heaven, ingests it, and the two become one. But the buzzard”—he paused and shook his head— “the buzzard feeds on dead flesh on the earth, ingests it, and the two become one.”
I put down the coffee and Bible and continued my surveillance of the bird drifted, hunting for its breakfast. “We’re not talking about birds, are we? Is this a parable?”
Chance laughed and kissed my hand, looking up at me with adoration.
“I’m just thinking that’s how it must be with God and the devil. At first glance, we can’t always tell them apart. You just get caught up in the hope and the idea.”
Chance was quiet as he let me draw my own conclusions.
“I guess it was like that for my mom, huh? She never could tell them apart. Those popular far eastern religions must have looked beautiful against the backdrop of boring Christian rituals. She probably never looked too close.”
My mom, like so many new age people I have met, refused to see or even consider the God of the Bible in any personal way. Starla had worshiped the water instead of the Living Water. She idolized the trees instead of the One who was nailed to a tree. Starla never knew or wanted to know the eternal God; the Way, the Truth, and the Life. Instead, she had created and customized a god into her own image. It broke my heart to think of all her drug-induced highs, but she never soared with angels. For all her consumption of liquid spirits and mystical spirits, she had been adamant in rejecting the Holy Spirit. In the end, she got just what she wanted: No God instead of Knowing God.
I sighed deeply. The thought weighed heavy on my heart. And then, I just had to ask.
“Chance?” I asked, “What do you think about salmon?
“Salmon?” He cocked an eyebrow and then tipped his head, questioning and curious.
“Yeah. Salmon. What do think about salmon?” I let the question simmer as we continued to gaze at the horizon and the bird until it melted into the endless sky.
He turned to study me.
“Is this a Sunny Sermon?” he returned the tease. “If you go into ministry, you'll have to change your name to 'Serious' and give Serious Sermons.” We both laughed at the prospect of Pastor Positive and Serious Sunny Sermons, and as we did, our hearts entwined.
“How did we go from birds to fish?” he asked.
I threw him a playful look. “It's a test.”
With that, he grew serious, sensing the earnestness in my voice. Deliberating for a time, he finally smiled and said, “I love the salmon, Sunny. They follow their destiny, whatever the cost.”
I am following my destiny. One day at a time. And that can be exciting on days like this.
The bikes glistened like a row of dragonflies perched on a wire fence under a bright summer sun. Everyone says to shop around and never buy the first one you see. But the truth is, when I am done dutifully comparison shopping, I always come back to the first eye-catcher and buy it.
The sunny yellow Fat Boy I straddled didn't make me feel like either. In fact, it felt perfect. Shane was happy to have negotiated a sale. He never could understand why Chance bought a VTX instead of a Harley. Ashley was stunned and took up her usual, “If I were you, I would...” before catching herself.
Dear Ashley!
That was yesterday. Today the sky is blue and the California sun holds the promise of a perfect ride in the face of winter. Chance will be dropping off Mercy at my house and leaving for San Diego in the morning. It's not exactly that he is going on without me, but that he is moving on with himself. I feel a little insecure, but I will be okay. Kind of like riding solo instead of two-up with Chance, it is time to take responsibility and control. Time to face my fears and live the dream. I will be here, if and when Chance returns.
The moment of truth arrived, as it does this time every year. I hold my breath, suck it in and zip my black leather chaps, relieved once again that no seams explode as I tug the zipper over my thighs. I kiss my Kissme-Dog on her furry little head, tuck her into my bathrobe lying on the sofa, and turn the TV to the Animal Planet before slipping outside.
Chance doesn’t live far away, as the bird flies. In the distance, I can hear the faint roar of the VTX coming to life. Smiling, I finish gearing up, fire up my new bike and twist the throttle. It is going to be another beautiful day as I ride out to fully embrace it. I am not sure where we will go from here, uphill or down, but I am confident that we are headed in the same direction.
Homicides remain my hardest cases. Murder is an inevitable, tragic part of the work of an advocate. I stand here in a cold courtroom, subpoena in hand, and am required to examine grotesque photos of the victim's remains. I am asked to identify a once vital woman who has become no more or less than a series of exhibits.
Is this how Jasmine's story ends? How could it possibly have come full circle? Jasmine had been my very first case, on my first day working as Victim Advocate for the district attorney's office. I smiled, fondly recalling Crazy Bob Martel and the way I had immediately broken all of the rules of advocacy. I remember it clearly.
“Is he still in the house?” I had asked the woman on the phone. “No?” He had left for work. Just another day in his mind, I thought bitterly. “Are you safe?” I knew she was, but it was a standard question that I was compelled to ask.
The sheriff’s office had called me instead of Marne. The politics behind the call had escaped me. I was new on the job and trying to be precision perfect. I ran through a quick list of things for her to pack. “Be sure to take your important documents: your Social Security cards and birth certificates, health insurance and food stamp cards, credit cards, driver’s license and the pink slip to your vehicle.”
“Okay,” she said in a timid voice, “anything else?”
“Don't forget money, keys, medications, and a change of clothes. And be sure to bring a favorite toy for each of the children,” I added.
I could hear her crying on the other end of the line, completely overwhelmed. The sobs told me that my information was too much for her to handle in her state of crisis.
I knew the officer was probably impatient to be off doing cop-things, like arresting Jasmine’s husband, so I asked her to put Deputy Sheriff Martel on the line and offered to pick up Jazz and the girls and drive them to the hospital and shelter.
After several hours in the SART room, I took Jasmine to my office, closed the blinds, locked the door, and photographed her external injuries.
Rule #1. Never get emotionally involved. And yet, who can control the heart? I loved this courageous young woman and her two daughters from the moment I laid eyes on them. There was no resisting those precious little girls dressed in Hello Kitty pajamas with riotous halos of golden curls crowning their angelic faces. They looked just like their mother, except Mom was missing handfuls of curls where her hair had been ripped out during the struggle; injuries courtesy of her husband, Bryan, the plumber.
Jazz and the girls had recently moved to Palermo from Mt. Shasta, which is also located in northern California, shortly after Bryan inherited a trailer and the Ready Response Plumbing business from his elderly, recently deceased, stepfather. Jazz was without the support of family or friends.
There would
be no returning to the trailer park. I could have arranged for a civil standby, where an officer literally “stands by” making sure the victim is safe while she removes her personal belongings. Not an immediate issue, because Bryan was in jail. But then, Bryan had brothers, and Jasmine was too afraid to return to the trailer. Apparently, with good reason.
The shelter was full and the hour late by the time we reached Chico. I had thanked God for Catholic Social Services, that wonderful community resource that sometimes pays for an emergency motel room in this type of situation. Like many women, Jasmine's bank account and credit cards were in her husband's name.
Seeing them tired and hungry, I broke Rule #2 by pulling into the parking lot at Collin's and Denny's market and buying a bag of groceries with my own money. This was against the rules, but it was after hours, and it was my money. Anyhow, it felt like the right thing to do. I knew they would not walk through the strange city of Chico after dark, trying to find the Jesus Center for a hot meal.
Charged with sexual battery, Bryan had followed Jazz to Mt. Shasta where he had savagely beaten her. The morning news broadcast of that event had been the source of my distraction—on the day of my motorcycle accident—the day that Chance came into my life and pulled me from the river. Amazing, how many lives were changed by just one man.
The murder case has taken years in coming to trial. It turned out to be a complicated case, requiring extensive investigation and top-notch lab work. Now the hard labor and dedication of the investigators and prosecutors have finally come to fruition. They believe that Bryan strangled Jasmine and disposed of her body by hiding it in a septic tank. The body had been horribly decomposed by the time they found it.
Back at my desk, I shuddered at the snapshots of her ravaged remains. I reflected on her courage and her vitality with great sadness.
In the recess of my mind, I could clearly hear the question that people so frequently ask me: “Sunny, how can you stand your job?”