Warning: This is not a funny story. It contains talk of sexual abuse, stalking and severe animal cruelty.

A cuddle from MacDonalds

Major Sarah McKenzie aka Mac knew the next interview was going to be a tough one. When Admiral Chegwidden had handed her the case file and she had flipped through the first few pages of the indictment, she had wished fervently he had picked another JAG-member to handle it. On the other hand she realized she might be the best person for this case. Nonetheless … a stalker cum rape slash murder attempt case was not something she was looking forward to just before the close of the week. This was bound to be a case that would stay with her over the weekend. She definitely envied the colleagues who were able to 'turn the knob' and forget about work when leaving the office. However, one did not say 'no' to the Admiral – at least not with only 'I want a quiet weekend' for a reason. And 'I don't want to have nightmares' would get her a ticket to the JAG-shrink; something she also did not want. So she had resigned herself to it and was now waiting for the victim – the alleged victim – to arrive. She had re-arranged her office just enough to ensure that neither of them would be sitting with their backs to the door. She knew all too well that was not a good idea when talking with someone who had been stalked. Mac was just reaching for her cup of coffee when a soft knock on her door heralded the arrival of her interviewee.
Chief Petty Officer Maeve Campbell was not a pretty woman in the classic sense. She was of medium height, well-muscled, her hair cropped short – easy when you were in a combat situation – and she had that air that all seasoned soldiers have: tough, alert and ready for everything. But Sarah saw the tell-tale signs of a brittleness the tough exterior couldn't hide. Not for her at least. With a few words she tried to put the woman at ease and asked her to tell her everything. The soldier across the desk didn't need much encouragement.
In a dispassionate voice Maeve told how it all had started: some 'fooling around' in the bar one evening. She had been groped from behind. Groped so hard it had hurt and left bruises. Turning around she had seen a group of marines, but she couldn't tell who had done it. All had been grinning and high-fiving each other. She had told them off and gone home. Two weeks later it had happened again, done by the same group. The next day she'd gone to the group's commanding officer to complain.
Flatly she related how the officer had told her she was overreacting and that it was just some friendly banter. And that she had been told condescendingly to 'deal with it, sailor'. Two weeks later again she had been called in for disciplinary reasons and been asked to explain putting two men out of action by kneeing them in the groin, hard. She replied that they themselves had basically ordered her to deal with the harassment herself. Her commanding officers said that a little joking around did not justify sending two men to the sickbay, so she had calmly taken off her uniform and showed the vivid bruising on her breasts – some recent in dark purple, some in two weeks old fading green – but all clearly caused by squeezing fingers. And she had told them she was quite prepared to show the ones on her buttocks and inner thighs – all from a little joking. The reprimand had been stricken from her record, but the men had never been disciplined nor had any of the other men involved been spoken to.
She told how, soon after that, the phone calls had started; always when she was off duty, always from untraceable, disposable cell phones. And how one day she had swapped duties unexpectedly and had been working in communications when a call came. She had used the equipment to trace it and – not unexpectedly – it had come from somewhere on the base itself. She had tried to trick the perp by calling back when most of the personnel were in the mess hall, to no avail. No phone had rung, no one had answered.
The next day she had found the first message in her home. No sign of a break-in, nothing disturbed, just that small note on her desk with a chocolate. She had kept the note and thrown out the chocolate. The next message had come a few days later, and then they appeared with almost iron regularity, though she never could be sure where they'd be: in the fridge, stuck into the band of her dress hat, in her drawers, slipped under a vase of flowers … and even more unsettling, often they had been accompanied by an item that showed her stalker knew exactly what she had done that day or the day before. Had she bought chicken, she would find an orange and a recipe for cock a l'orange … A few times her unknown assailant had even beaten her home, leaving a token before she returned with her groceries. That had been particularly unnerving.
Maeve told how she had reported the first break-ins, but with nothing to show for it, except some notes which at that time had still been rather innocent, and no traces of forced entry, her complaint had been dismissed. So she had changed the locks herself. That had kept her stalker away for exactly three days. Two subsequent reports from her side had been answered by a summons to the medical office and she had noticed what the therapist she had been made to see had written in her file: delayed reaction PTSD.
And then the rumours had started – that she was butch … Rumours that, of course, had reached her superiors. They hadn't asked her outright; don't ask – don't tell. But her request for a transfer to another base or even deployment had been refused, on the grounds of suspected mental instability. The 'diagnosed' PTSD or being lesbian, one of the two was probably to blame.
"Are you?" Mac asked, "I really don't care if you are a lesbian, but it is bound to come up in court. They will ask you, just like they will ask you what you were wearing and why you were where your alleged rapist found you. Anything to cast aspersions on you …"
Maeve snorted. "Don't I know it?! It was at the end of my shift, 22:15. I was in uniform – winter dress – walking home on base, within 10 yards of my own front door. That's what saved my life, that and my neighbour having called in sick. On a normal day he wouldn't have been there to hear me scream."
Reporting as a soldier reports a combat incident, Chief Campbell gave a blow-by-blow recount of what had happened that evening. From the quickening footsteps behind her, the hand on her collar, to her instinctive ducking making the blow to her head only a glancing one – just enough to make her dizzy and lose balance. Her realisation that her assailant was too strong and her decision – her conscious decision to scream against all that her unarmed-combat teachers had taught her. Screaming will make you lose focus, it will make you feel vulnerable, it will tell your guts you cannot win …
How her screaming had alerted her neighbour. Clad in only his boxers, her neighbour had come to the rescue, throwing off the assailant but only able to retain the mask he had been wearing. Navy issue balaclavas. Hairs and skin cells in the balaclavas had yielded enough DNA for comparison, and the testimony of her neighbour – a lieutenant with more clout than a 'simple' petty officer – had ensured that this time a proper investigation had been launched, resulting in the apprehension of the stalker.
"And as to being a lesbian," Maeve added, "no, I'm not. But I'm not interested in men at the moment either. My …" her voice broke for split second. "I was engaged. My fiancé worked in bomb disposal … He was killed half a year ago. I'm not ready yet for another relation."
Mac nodded.
"You appear more angry than scared about that rape attempt," Mac observed.
"Oh, I was scared – of course, I was. But I guess adrenaline kicked in, and besides, you know we are told as women what can happen when you are caught by the enemy. At some level you are prepared for something like this. Maybe every woman is."
Mac started to ask "But …"
"No," Maeve interrupted, "I don't want to trivialise that rape attempt. It was a terrible experience – harrowing. Actually, there isn't a word to describe it … and I want him to pay for it. To answer for what he did. Also to make sure he never will be able to do this to another woman."
"I know," Mac said, "but what hurt you the most in all this? I see a woman ready to fight, but I also sense something has been broken inside, really shattered. I see you twitching whenever someone passes by my office, some flashes of fear when you see a uniform. But what I see won't be apparent to everyone – and to be honest, especially not to the average male. I don't want the jury to trivialize this. I don't want them to say that this hasn't deeply affected you. But hearing you describe it, it is as if it happened to someone else."
Maeve started to say something, but then fell silent – a silence that grew. Two men passed Mac's office talking rather loudly, one of them in a clear Texan accent and Mac saw Maeve pale and twitch nervously.
"Maybe we should talk somewhere neutral. I know a small quiet restaurant," Mac suggested. "Give me a second." Mac dug into her purse and fished out her cell phone. She didn't notice that a picture fell to the ground. While she started to dial a number, Maeve bent down to pick it up, looking at it inadvertently …
Mac saw her choke up and stopped punching numbers. Glancing at the photograph Maeve held, she quickly revised her plan and speed-dialled Harm instead.
"Harm, would you mind me taking someone over to your place? I know you're not there …"
"Mi casa es su casa, querida," Harm answered.
"Thanks," Mac said, "I'll explain later."
She picked up her purse and coat. Maeve looked up, tears running down her cheek, trembling fingers still holding the photo of calico Mac and her kittens. Mac briefly put a hand on her shoulder, handed her a tissue and softly said "Let's go somewhere else."
In the car Maeve regained her composure, but she still didn't say anything so they drove on in silence. Close to Harm's apartment, Mac turned into the parking lot of a large supermarket. "Do you mind," she asked, "I need to get a few things and I'll pick up something for us to eat."
"Let me," Maeve said, "let me do the cooking, if you don't mind. I love cooking."
"Okay," Mac said, recognizing Chief Campbell needed a familiar activity to rebalance. "You grab what you'd like to cook and I'll grab my groceries. See you at till number 9."
10 minutes later, they were on their way again. Mac laden with two trays of cat food and a huge bag of kitty litter, Maeve with a bag filled with chicken breasts, cream cheese, mange tout and potato wedges. At Harm's place Maeve helped Mac to lug up the heavy groceries. When Mac unlocked the door, the caged kittens set up a mewling clamour.
"Commander Rabb was cat-sitting the neighbour's cat when she had a surprise litter. We're trying to find homes for them and so far have succeeded in placing only two. I'll set them free in a moment, but let me show you the kitchen first." She chuckled, "That sounds rather sexist."
Maeve grinned back as she put her bag on the counter and started unpacking.
"I'll try and keep the kittens out of your way; just shove them off the counter when they climb up."
"When … not if?"
"Definitely 'when'," Mac replied, while she upended two cans of kitten food into the large feeding bowls before she went to release the horde. Tumbling over each other the kittens ran for their food. Mother Mac followed a little more sedately, staring accusingly at Mac when she saw her own bowl still empty.
"If I fill that before letting the kittens out, you would have to fight off your own offspring, Mac," Mac said filling the offending bowl. "A little patience never hurt."
'Wait till you have a litter' the accusing green eyes said, before the calico cat started to wolf down her portion.
As soon as the plates were polished off, four kittens beleaguered Mac for attention; the fifth made a beeline for the kitchen and its enticing smells of chicken and melting cream cheese.
Mac heard the oven door open and close. "That needs about 20 minutes," Maeve said, walking into the living carrying MacDonalds on her arm. Mac saw tears in her eyes again and poured her a cup of tea.
"Can you talk about it?"
Maeve blew over her cup and blinked a few times, trying to clear her eyes. She dug into her pockets. "Strange, I was sure I had a hanky somewhere."
From the corner of her eye Mac saw Macavity slinking away dragging a piece of cloth. She grinned inwardly, but didn't show a sign of that to Chief Campbell. Instead she slid a box of tissues over. "Use these."
"It was about two weeks before the attack," Maeve said, blotting her eyes with a tissue. "I'd gone out, off base, with a friend and we picked up a snack at a fast food place. We sat on the hood of my car and suddenly there she was: a young tabby looking for something to eat. We gave her some tidbits from our burritos. Then we went to the movies, but my mind kept wandering back to that cat, and she stayed on my mind the following day. So two days later I went back to see …" She sipped her tea.
"She was still there. I asked inside if they knew where she belonged and they said she was a stray. So I coached her into my car and took her home. I named her Taco Belle."
Abruptly Chief Campbell stood up and went to the kitchen. When she returned with two plates of chicken Kiev and roast potatoes, Mac noticed her scrubbed cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. She said nothing and they ate in silence.
"Taco Belle was so loving and trusting – too trusting. She was with me only four days …"
Tears started again, rolling down silently. MacDonalds, who had been sitting on the chair next to her, put a tentative paw on her arm. Absently she petted his little head and gave him the last bite of her chicken.
"It was Tuesday, I had a late shift. I came home well past midnight." Maeve choked. She fumbled in her pocket and came out with a creased picture that she dropped on the table between them. As Mac picked it up, MacDonalds crawled into Maeve's lap and, hooking his claws into her uniform, made his way up to lick the tears off her chin and cheeks. Soundlessly crying she held him close and stroked him.
Mac couldn't help crying too, as she looked at the photo. Little Taco Belle had been nailed to the front door, blood streaking the wood, an angrily scrawled note pinned to her chest: 'I DON'T SHARE YOU.

Monday - three weeks later
Mac was in full spate, pacing the floor between judge, jurors, the defendant and her client.
"… and why didn't she tell at first? Because in the military you have to be tough, and as a woman in the military you need to be twice as tough as the men, to be considered half as tough … She did two tours of duty in Iraq and one in former Yugoslavia and she came through: experiences that broke strong men.
You know, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, it was not those experiences; it was not the fact that she was not and had never been fit for duty as the defence council poses that broke Chief Campbell. It was the knowledge that one of her comrades, one of the men she trained with and spent most of the day with, one of the men she had to trust with her life in everyday combat – one of those, jurors, had to be the one who did this all to her. It is one thing to have to look over your shoulder every waking moment when you are in enemy territory, but to have to do that in your own country, your own base, your own home because one of the men you are taught to trust has turned on you … that, ladies and gentlemen, is devastating. All the more because she was not believed, her reports were belittled, her commanding officers portrayed her as a hysterical woman – and you have heard the defence council say just that again.
But is this all the overreacting of a hysterical woman? Is it just fooling around, when it leaves bruises so vivid you can see them for weeks? Is it 'just banter' when a young cat is nailed to your door to die? You all saw the brutal pictures of that. It had to come to attempted rape and murder and the witness account of a ranking male officer for her superiors to finally take action.
Take a good look at her, members of the jury. Look at the honours she wears on her chest – look at her record of service. Does this woman look as if flipping burgers is too arduous a task for her, as the defence council wants you to believe? No – you are looking at one tough woman who has endured more than could ever be expected of anyone, and more than enough to send stronger men home crying for their mothers.
And she is not crying out for revenge; all Chief Campbell asks for is justice: for her and for that little kitten. And the surety this will not happen to another woman or cat again at the hands of this individual. So far the military has failed Chief Petty Officer Maeve Campbell – let's not fail her now."

Friday evening
It wasn't a real celebration, more like a subdued celebratory drink enjoyed in one of the more private booths of MacMurphy's Tavern. Maeve sat with her back to the wall, a glass of Herefordshire perry –which she had been delighted to find here – in front of her and occasionally scanning the guests at the other tables. They might have won the case, with a more than substantial sentence for the stalker, but they all knew it would take her months to recover. Mac, as designated driver, was sipping her favourite tonic water with a twist and Harm had a tall glass of beer in front of him. On the table sat MacMurphy, who had enthusiastically greeted Harm and Mac upon their entering and who was now eyeing their glasses hopefully. While Maeve caressed the young cat, Harm told her the story of how MacMurphy got his name and how he had landed the job in the pub. Maeve chuckled and tickled the cat under his chin.
"I'm moving to Patuxent River base," she told them. "I'll be retraining as a cook, mostly off base I think, but living on base. I don't want to leave the military, but I'm not sure if I will be ready for deployment any time soon again. And, despite us winning today, you know how it works. Some things stay a blot on your record, however much you try and scrub them off."
Mac and Harm nodded. Even if incident reports and faulty evaluations were stricken from a personal record, word would still spread and doubts about her fitness would continue to hamper her military career.
"I do have a request though and that's why I asked you to be present tonight too," Maeve continued looking at Harm. "Next week I will move to Maryland, and I won't be moving for a long time after that. Could I please have MacDonalds join me in my new place? Major MacKenzie said he doesn't have a home yet and I … I think I need him."
Mac and Harm only needed to exchange one look.
"I wouldn't know a better place for him," Mac said warmly, reaching over to hug Maeve and then she grinned. "MacDonalds would love to have his personal chef."