where decorum was expected and enforced, the rough language was the last to go. Anthony always said, “Lexie’s ‘women’ would make a platoon of soldiers blush.”
Turning to the group of young girls, Lexie chanted instructions as they moved in formation across the mats. “Kick, strike, turn! Kick strike, turn!”
When they reached the other side, their young faces glowing with the effort, they bowed low to Lexie and Master Wan. Shouts and applause rang out.
Lexie smiled at Graciella, at six, the youngest of the group, and Tanya, her seven year old sister. Both girls showed extraordinary promise. Lexie’s heart clenched. The girls looked so much like Jill, it was painful. Shoving down the ache, she focused on her gratitude. Somehow out of the tragedy, they had been able to save the two little girls.
Glancing at Jill’s picture in the center of the trophy wall, Lexie reminded herself how proud Jill would be of her girls. They were survivors.
Jill was one of the first students in Lexie’s women’s self-defense class. The phone call in the middle of the night was as clear, as chilling today as it had been three years ago. The nightmare woke her often. Jill’s frantic whispers, begging her to come. “He’s going to kill me, please come, Lexie…please...”
They didn’t get there in time. Jill’s husband beat her to death in front of their wide-eyed three and four year old little girls.
Lexie had planned to be a social worker, but after Jill’s death she decided she preferred a profession where she could carry a gun. From that moment on, her mission in life was the women and girls in front of her and the throngs of others that would constantly fill their ranks.
After each group performed and had been cheered by their admiring peers, Lexie pulled them together for last minute instructions.
“Remember, we will have lots of press people here today. We have three television stations coming and both newspapers.”
Tanya interrupted, her eyes glowing with wonder, “You mean we will be on television?”
Lexie, laughed. “You sure better be. That’s why we’ve been working so hard to get your routines perfect. Now, the reporters are going to ask you questions. Don’t be afraid, and don’t be shy. Tell them why you are here and show them all the things you are learning.”
An older woman, her face disfigured with an ugly scar that kept one eye permanently closed, interrupted, “No, Jai Li. They don’t want to talk to us.” She pointed to the trophy wall, “They want to talk to you. You’re the star.”
Lexie put up her hands. Her voice was fierce. “Oh, no, I’m not, Margaret! I’m your sensei. All of you, every one of you, is a star!”
She looked from woman to woman, holding their gaze. When she reached the young girls, she nodded to Graciella. “Even you, Graciella. You are a strong little girl.”
Turning back to the group, Lexie shouted, “What do strong girls become?”
The responding shout was as fierce as Lexie’s.
“Strong Women!”
At that moment, the two young men perched on tall ladders hanging a banner across the doorway let the banner unfurl. In big bold script it said “Strong Women Survive!”
A chorus of cheers broke out as the women gazed up at the banner that claimed their victory.
Lexie turned to the women, many of whom had tears in their eyes. A few were openly crying.
She chanted.
“What do strong women do?”
The chant came back.
“Survive!”
Lexie shouted again.
“What do strong women do?”
“Inspire!”
”Who are we?”
“Strong Women!”
“Who are we?”
“Strong women who survive!”
In the chorus of laughter and excitement that followed, Lexie permitted herself a flush of pride. The banner was her line in the sand. She swelled with satisfaction and determination, vowing as Anthony vowed to her, she would never let these women down. Never let anyone hurt them.
~~~
In the midst of the chatter, the door between the dojo and Master Wan’s home opened. The delectable smell of pastries filled the air.
Several of the little girls dragged on Lexie’s arm. Mindy pleaded, “Oh, Jai Li, please say there’ll be those puffy cookies with the sweet stuff inside at the party?” The other girls’ shrill voices added to the clamor.
Lexie laughed. Madam Juen had been baking for two days in preparation for the celebration. The little girls had come to love the lotus paste pastries as much as Lexie did, preferring them to Oreos and chocolate chip cookies.
Lexie looked up in time to see Schen’s frown and turned to see Master Wan in the doorway. She stepped back, startled by his appearance.
She’d known his black hair had grayed over the years, but he looked ten years older. The pain on his face was so intense, so blatant that she struggled to find her breath.
Swallowing hard, she whispered, “Madam Juen?” praying with all her heart that it wasn’t.
Tears streamed down Master Wan’s face. He shook his head no.
The pain that had begun to grip her tightened, a vice squeezing every drop of blood from her heart. There wasn’t enough spit in her mouth to say the word. Lexie could only mouth it.
“Anthony?”
Master Wan closed his eyes and then nodded. He handed her the official looking document with the black and gold insignia across the top: Yuma Police Department.
Chapter 2
Jake slipped in the conference room in time to hear Chief Burton say “I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Beloi.” Even to Jake, the words sounded hollow. The tense young woman sitting across from the chief responded like he’d lobbed a gallon of gasoline on smoldering coals.
Her voice was incredulous, laced with fury. “You are sorry for my loss, Chief?”
Is that what you have to say to me? You are sorry for my loss?” She tossed her head and leaned forward, grasping the arms of the chair, her fingers white with the strain.
The chief squirmed. The slight flush on his cheeks and greasy sheen on his upper lip telegraphed his discomfort. Jake breathed in the heavy tension in the room, tangled with the smell of burnt coffee and industrial cleaner. The six men huddled around the scarred table looked as uncomfortable as the chief. Distinguishable only by the colors of their uniforms, they were a striking contrast to the blond woman in her fitted red suit glaring at the chief.
Her anger was harsh, unrelenting. “Who taught you to say that, Chief? Some shrink years ago told you that’s what grieving families wanted to hear? That you were sorry that they lost something? Like a dog or a cat?? How about if they “lost” a mother or a father or a child--or in my case, a brother? Did it ever occur to you, Chief, to change your script? To look the person in the eye and say to those shattered souls sitting across from you, ‘I’m sorry as hell, ma’am, that your husband was killed?’ Or, ‘sure am sorry that your kid drowned, or hate like heck that
