Fire in Me

by Dawn Mattox

  When Chance would eye-ball Paige, I concluded that it was petty jealousy on my part. After all, Paige looked like a cover girl for Seventeen Magazine and was a pretty sharp thinker when she wasn’t doing her dumb-blonde routine.

  “I have a POST Certificate,” she assured me when I hesitated at the guy’s request to help place her in the DA's Office. Mark lit up.

  “Why not apply for a position as an enforcement officer? I'm sure you'd be great,” I lied with an encouraging smile. She might have passed the Police Officer Standard Training courses, but I shrank at the thought of Paige with a gun.

  Paige had winced at Mark's sudden interest, and mumbled something about “sexual harassment” that sounded a lot like, “I slept with the training officer.”

  I admit Paige makes me crazy, always flirting with Chance and every other male between the ages of ten and dead. But she did possess a lot of training that could make her a valuable asset to the unit. I didn't realize until later that while she had a working knowledge of the law, she knew very little about victims and their issues. Paige had majored in criminology, and I had majored in victimology.

  “Wow, you look terrible!” Paige greeted me.

  I paused for a second, taking a mental time-out. Okay, it was Monday, and I hadn't slept very well. I gravitated to the coffee machine for another cup. “Yeah, I got called out on a rape yesterday. Keep your eyes peeled for a police report in the intake box for a Gregg Neilson.”

  “Who’s the victim? Paige asked.

  “His wife, Chelsea.”

  Paige’s right eyebrow shot up. “His wife? She filed a complaint?”

  I sometimes wonder about Paige and my stupidity in hiring her. I am pretty sure that dumb-blonde jokes were written with her in mind. I roll my eyes when men in the office tell them, and she takes pride in not getting the punch line. I know she's not stupid so I find it irritating that she works at perfecting the empty-headed ditzy image. Sometimes, most of the time, I am embarrassed that Chance and Mark ever talked me into recommending her. I figure she majored in Sleeping Your Way to the Top 101 with a Double-D Doctorate.

  “Yeah,” I tried to explain. “Rape of a spouse is a crime. Wives get raped the same way other women get raped—forcibly. They have a long history of domestic violence. Now she’s pregnant, and he’s raped and beaten her.”

  Paige looked thoughtful. “Huh. I'm surprised she reported it. I wonder what she did to make him so mad?” She snickered, “Probably stopped having sex with him because she was pregnant.”

  “The rape wasn’t her fault. Rape isn't about sex anyhow. Rape is a guy beating a woman with his penis instead of his fist.” Paige wrinkled her nose in disgust. I continued, “And what if she did start the fight? She still didn’t deserve to be raped and beaten. No one deserves that.”

  Paige stiffened at my remark. “She should have left him if her marriage was that bad,” she said with a disparaging attitude.

  It occurred to me that while Paige might be a genius on a computer that is where her talent ended. She was less informed on the subject of domestic violence than most of the jurors I instruct.

  Drumming my fingers on the desk, I was losing patience. It’s a good thing we had an old friendship to fall back on. Also, I wanted to make Chance proud of me for training Paige, so I made a mental commitment to be patient and tolerant.

  “Let me list some possibilities for you. Try pregnant, no job, no money, no car, family hates her, and she has a child to support. Anyone who beats you half to death and says he’ll kill you is a high risk for doing it. She’s terrified, Paige.”

  Her eyes snapped. “Well, I wouldn't let anyone do that to me! I'd leave him first,” he said.

  Okay, my commitment to patience had lasted about thirty seconds before vaporizing in a nanosecond. I rose from my chair and leaned into her. “She didn't let him! Anyhow... don't you have something to do? Make coffee, dump the trash?” I wanted her to go away so I could work.

  I spun around to find myself toe to toe with Travis Winslow, the newest investigator in our vertical prosecution team that was comprised of a prosecutor, an investigator, and an advocate. I only avoided throwing coffee on him by splashing it down myself instead.

  “I hate it when you do that!” I glared at Travis who laughed as I tried in vain to wipe brown splotches from my new white shirt. I don’t know if he works at sneaking up on me or if he is always in stealth mode.

  Travis is as handsome as Paige is sexy, only he doesn't look like Ken compared to Paige’s Barbie-Doll image. Travis looks more like the action figure, GI Joe. There is a reason for that. Reyna in Personnel had told me everything. A fountain of gossip, she said that Travis had served in the Intelligence Division of the Army during the Gulf War and did two stints in Iraq. Furthermore, he was hired by ATF before the ink was dry on his discharge papers.

  I suspect there is a military story behind the thin, pale scar that peeks out just between the collar of his dress shirt and his sandy brown hair. He is about Chance's age, has a pair of intriguing green eyes, is average sized with muscles that press nicely in all the right places, and he is always chewing gum to release surplus energy. Travis embodies all the maturity and discipline that screams military background.

  Only God and Jack Savage, our District Attorney, knows why he is in our neck of the woods working for us. He seems like a career guy who would have been more at home in the Intel Division of the Pentagon instead of replacing our former Investigator, Davis Martin. Davis had been transferred out of SVU and into BNTF, the Butte County Narcotics Task Force. It was a coveted promotion for Martin and Travis had slid into Davis’s spot much to the dismay of other seasoned applicants in line for the job.

  Travis pulled a tissue from the box on my desk. “Let me help.” He smiled and started dabbing at my breast.

  “I’ve got it!” I said, huffing and batting his hand away.

  “Have it your way. Got a special delivery for you,” he said, giving me the file in his other hand.

  “Oh my gosh... how did you get this so fast? How did you know?”

  “This is just Chelsea’s statement. Deputy Robert Martel, uh... Crazy Bob, said he would hand deliver the full report when he’s done.”

  “Thanks, Travis. You’re the best!” I went from scowling to grinning faster than Paige’s BMW does zero to sixty.

  His green eyes teased. “Yeah, I know. Got to get to court.” And he was gone.

  “Nice buns.” Paige followed his exit with predatory cat eyes, or possibly they were glinting with jealousy. The thought made me smile.

  “What about Mark?” I asked.

  “What about Mark?” She smirked. “He has nothing to do with other men's behinds.”

  “Oh, that’s real loyalty.”

  “Oh-yourself! Get real.” Paige raised her voice. “Men window shop all the time and it's no big deal. Men are nice for just one reason. Sex is all they really care about. Besides, you act all churchy now, but you must have been hot once with—what was his name? Morgan?”

  “Logan. His name was Logan, and the concept you're searching for is called self-control.”

  She knew Logan's name and that he was a member of Hells Angels. Her eyes had widened when I told her a little about him. She had pumped me for all the gritty details, but I never shared the dark stuff—the rapes, the baby, the beatings. Since Paige started work for the DA, our relationship had not only cooled, but chilled. I began to build a familiar, impenetrable wall. I was a master mason when it came to building walls. I had no intention of telling her the secrets I had so carefully withheld from my husband.

  Paige smiled sweetly. “Whoops! I must have let my membership with Club Christ expire.”

  I was used to Paige’s increasing sarcasm as our relationship devolved, from friendly-friends to worker-supervisor. She increasingly reminded me of my mother who also lives life without boundaries or consideration for others.

  “You might want to check your nails,” I replied, just as sweetly, present
ing the back of my hand and wriggling my fingers, causing Page to do a quick damage assessment of her long, elaborate solar nails. “Your claws are showing, dear.”

  She became red-faced and defensive. Paige was easy, in more ways than one.

  “And you still have coffee stains on your shirt,” she said, spinning away on her platforms, swishing her way back to the common area.

  The phone rang. “District Attorney Office, this is the Advocate.”

  “Sacramento Airport, this is Chance.”

  “You miss me and can’t live without me! Right?”

  “That too.” Chance paused, losing his stride before regaining it. “I’m calling to let you know that I left my cell phone at the house.” He sounded anxious. “I can’t believe I did that. I need you to look everywhere for me and turn it off. If you need to reach me, you can use Mark’s number.”

  “Is that what you’re on now?”

  “Yeah. Mark’s not happy that I forgot my phone, but he can’t say much. Last month he dropped his down a toilet at a rest stop and reported it 'lost.'” Chance laughed. “Oh, hey, I think they want us at security. Gotta run. I love you. And Sunny, don’t forget to shut it off, okay?”

  “No problem. Love you too. Have a safe flight.”

  I looked at the stack of cases, about ten deep, with a small groan. Every month Victim Witness sends me data sheets that rank Domestic Violence as the number one violent crime in the county, making up about one-third to one-half of all violent incidents. No big surprise to those who know that Butte County gets about one-thousand domestic-related calls each year.

  As the population goes up, so do the calls. I know that the violence is not based on socio-economics, race, gender, income, education, or motorcycle type. People of all colors, backgrounds, and income levels commit interpersonal violence. Offenders always think they have a justifiable reason for striking out; blaming their problems, their pasts, and their addictions. But everybody has problems, and Lord knows that I know everyone has a past.

  As far blaming addictions for violence, alcohol and methamphetamine are simply fuel for the fire. Addictions don’t cause violence, they enhance it. I have been assaulted by Logan both drunk-and-high and clean-and-sober.

  Some say alcoholics only hurt themselves—physically. Adults are expected to make choices and take responsibility for their behavior. Unless, of course, you are a progressive liberal like Paige who gives more weight to blame than accountability.

  The file-pile is usually larger on Mondays, probably due to the weekend increase of recreational substance abuse as much as the office is closed on weekends. “Mia Vang. Where do I know that name?” A mental challenge since Vang is more common than Smith in the local phone book. I sipped my coffee, and the caffeine pumped directly to my brain.

  Got it! That’s it—the Mental Health referral. A frail woman in her mid-forties who looks more like she is in her mid-eighties. Many people have never heard of “Hmongs.” They were a simple mountain tribe who befriended Americans during the Vietnam War and were later brought to America to keep them safe from political retaliation when we withdrew. They are refugees who, while dispersed throughout the nation, have a significant population and a remarkable talent for growing the best strawberries in Butte County. Mental Health offered special services to accommodate their cultural transition into American culture.

  Poor Mia! During a women’s group encounter at Mental Health, Mia disclosed that she had been hemorrhaging for several years, since the birth of her fifth child, leaving her body ravaged from a hormone imbalance and systemic drain on her health. She lives in a perpetual state of anemia and exhaustion and her husband will not allow her to have a much-needed hysterectomy because his friend advised him, “It makes them”—women—“dry down there.” Heaven forbid that her husband should be denied lubrication! The group session had also revealed that Mia's husband had assaulted her.

  “Tong Fong Low’s—what do you say?” Travis suggested. He was back from court and didn’t look happy. Court is always a hurry-up-and-wait affair.

  I reevaluated my pile. I had finished reviewing the new cases and prioritized them, not by date, but by possible lethality; bumping those victims most likely to end up dead to the top. I was unable to reach Mia on the phone and was not surprised. I doubted that her husband allowed her to use it.

  Her husband had showed up to the preliminary hearing with about fifteen other Hmong men. One man tried to enter the courthouse with a live chicken in a burlap bag. “We will take her behind the courthouse and kill the chicken,” he explained to the bailiff. “Mia must drink the blood. If she lives she is innocent, if she dies, she is guilty.” But that wasn't nearly as shocking as his Defense Attorney advocating for their right to follow this cultural tradition.

  “Isn't this supposed to be America? With American laws?” I whispered in court to the prosecutor, Amanda Cross.

  The man with the chicken had to leave, but much to everyone's amusement, someone put a rubber chicken in the defense attorney's discovery box for him to find the next morning. The attorney squawked about it, but the DA only laughed.

  The trial date was set and Mia had left the courtroom shuffling along three feet behind her husband staring at the floor, not daring to make eye contact with anyone.

  “We call it Chow Mein Charlie’s, not Tong Fong Low's,” I corrected Travis. Locals still call the place Chow Mein Charlie’s.

  “Would you mind stopping by Mia Vang’s after lunch? Hopefully, her piece-of-crap husband will be off with his girlfriend or losing his butt at one of the casinos.”

  Paige poked her head into my office, hands on the doorframe with the practiced moves of an exotic pole dancer, tossing her chin and looking hungry for more than food.

  “Someone say ‘lunch?’ I didn’t realize it was so late. Mind if I tag along?”

  “No problem, Paige... but you’ll have to take your own car.” Travis glanced my way. “Sunny and I have some follow-up investigation to do before I have to beat it back to court.”

  Paige started to pout. “I’m supposed to be an intern. Why can’t I tag along? I’ve learned everything there is to know here in the office.”

  I saw that flash of jealousy again.

  Travis raised his eyebrows and tucked in his chin. “Really? I’m impressed. How long has it been now? Three months?”

  “Almost four,” she argued. Did she not know sarcasm when she heard it? “Besides, it's Sunny's job to train me.”

  I was out of arguments to prevent Paige from joining us and told myself it didn't matter.

  Travis slid into the booth next to me. We ordered our food, and Travis asked, “What's so special about Chow Mein Charlie that this place kept his name?”

  “Oroville has a rich Chinese heritage from the gold rush days,” I said, warming to the topic. “The original restaurant was half this size. It used to have a row of booths along that wall,” I pointed, “and each booth was draped with dark red velvet curtains. The people inside had total privacy. Very mysterious! You know—secretaries and their bosses, shady politicians, opium dealers.”

  “Sounds perfect,” Travis lowered his voice suggestively.

  Pretending to study the menu, I found myself wondering where Chance was now. I also wondered about Travis’s lack of a wedding ring as he studied the menu. Travis ordered Chicken Chow Mein, Paige ordered a Lite Stir-Fry Special and I already knew that I wanted flaming Mongolian Beef. Travis doesn’t feel married, I thought, and Paige was on that, like white on rice.

  The egg roll appetizers and won ton chips arrived and I bowed my head in silent prayer over my food.

  “Why do you do that?” Paige interrupted my prayer. “It's so embarrassing! Don't you know people are looking?”

  I finished my prayer without a flinch before asking, “Do what?”

  Paige rolled her eyes to heaven. “Act all holy in public.”

  “Because the Lord said, 'Do this in remembrance of me,' whenever you eat Chinese. Think of it as a
Post-It Note to God.”

  “What's it say?” she countered.

  “I remember.” Duh!

  Paige smirked. “That's lame. ‘Chinese!’ Anyhow, it shouldn’t be a public freak show.”

  Travis intervened as the server returned with platters of food. “There is a simple solution,” he advised Paige.

  “Yeah, she can keep her act at home where it belongs.”

  “Or,” said Travis as he picked up his chopsticks, “you can always eat with other people.”

  “And miss yours?” she cooed with familiarity. “No way!”

  CHAPTER 6

  The stop by Mia’s house had been futile. Her husband opened the door about six inches to advise us that Mia wasn’t feeling well and that she was sleeping. I looked over his shoulder saw nothing more than a calendar with an Asian pin-up girl and a Coca-Cola clock on the back wall of the entryway.

  Crazy Bob was waiting with the report on Chelsea's husband, Gregg Nielsen, by the time we got back.

  “Thanks, Bob, this is great. What are the charges from your end?”

  “Sexual battery and misdemeanor domestic violence.”

  “What happened to the spousal rape charges?”

  “Not gonna happen. The vic clammed up, the kids won't testify, and...” Bob made pincher motions with his thumb and forefinger, “there are no other injuries besides the Dalmatian spots he left on her body.”

  “Didn't the hospital send the kit results?”

  “They did, and we sent them up to you guys this morning. The pictures aren't the problem. She's refusing to allow the sexual assault photos be admitted into evidence and says the bruises are from her scratching mosquito bites. I hear Amanda’s filing a 273.5 as a misdemeanor.”

  “What?”

  “Uh-huh. Seems Mia’s new friend, Marne talked her out of pressing the rape charges.”