Sundi Lyons, 41, grew up as one of nine children in the Sacramento suburbs. After graduating from high school, she married and started a family with her husband, Sean, a manager at a car dealership. They live in working-class Antelope, just north of the state capital. Along the way, Lyons, who is blond, blue-eyed and charmingly vivacious, won a string of beauty pageants: Junior Miss Sacramento in 1982; then Miss Sacramento; and, years later, Mrs. Sacramento.
But life has been harder for Lyons than her résumé suggests. She has mostly fond memories of her childhood but court records show her marriage has been unusually rocky. She and her husband have been periodically estranged and reconciled. They have also demonstrated a penchant for taking people to court. Between them, they have filed lawsuits against a building developer, a landlord, an insurance company, a dentist, a cosmetic company and others. Lyons, who studies criminal justice at a local college, occasionally represented herself in these suits, which she often lost on legal technicalities.
Lyons' odyssey with Thunder Valley began as an attempt to take care of her family. Sean had lost his job and the family needed money and medical insurance. One of Lyons' four children has sleep apnea and another suffers from grand mal seizures; both require medicine and regular treatments. So Lyons realized she had to go to work. That's when she saw an ad in the Sacramento Bee for jobs at Thunder Valley, which included a good family health plan.
Soon after she applied at the casino, she was offered the job of ambassador. "I was the face of the casino on the floor, greeting people when they arrived and signing them up for Boarding Passes." These plastic cards, which patrons wear around their necks, are embedded with a computer chip. Gamblers insert the pass into slot machines and rack up points to earn T-shirts, coffee mugs and even a chance at an instant jackpot. At the same time, the card allows the casino's marketing division to create a profile of their gambling habits.
The job was made for Mrs. Sacramento. "It completely fit my personality, and I was very happy," she says. By fall, however, all that changed, as Broome became an unavoidable presence in her life.
Lyons' lawyers have instructed her not to speak directly about what happened while her case is proceeding. But the lawsuit tells the story. In it, Lyons alleges that Broome -- whom photographs reveal to be handsome, athletic and in his 30s -- started to come on to her in September of 2003. He told her that he "loved" her body. He made sexually explicit comments. Intimidated by the fact that Broome was a ranking executive, Lyons politely told him she was married and unavailable. Undeterred, he repeatedly cornered her in hallways and the employee dining room, touching and fondling her against her will.
Increasingly desperate to avoid Broome, Lyons changed the routes she traveled inside the casino, trying not to walk alone. She changed her working hours. To no avail: In front of casino patrons and employees, she alleges, Broome grabbed her pubic area and stuck his face into her hair and neck. Then, in October, Broome ordered Lyons to stop by his office without telling her why. When she arrived, she claims in the lawsuit, he closed the door, took off her pants, put her on his desk, and sexually assaulted her. When he was done, he handed her a paper towel to clean up her blood. In a state of shock, and terrified by the possibility of losing her job, Lyons kept mum. She had seen women fired for much lesser offenses than accusing a superior of rape, and she had a family with two sick kids to support.
For the next two months, according to the lawsuit, Broome continued to assault Lyons in the hallways. Lyons also alleges that he called her to his office once more and forced her to perform oral sex on him. The shame was overwhelming. She was petrified that if she reported him to management or the police, her family would find out. She says she began to feel ill on the job. On Nov. 18, Lyons quit, citing medical reasons, and hoping that would be the end of the ordeal.
But the next day, Broome came to her house. She was home alone taking a nap. "I was terrified," she says. "I never gave that man my address or my phone number." She woke up to the sound of his heels clicking on the pavement outside her house. "I could hear him pacing in front of the master bedroom and talking to another man. I was scared out of my mind. He had already violated me personally, and now he was violating my premises."
Broome eventually left, and several days later Lyons got a call from Rich Randolph, a lead investigator for the Tribal Gaming Agency, which monitors the casino for the Auburn tribe. He said he was calling to discuss her employment experience at the casino, and she decided to tell him about the sexual assaults. He said he would investigate and asked her not to tell anyone else about it. And that was the last that Lyons heard from Tribal Gaming. Randolph declined to comment for this story, saying he has been instructed not to talk about the case.
Lyons also reported the attacks to Special Agent Paul Chrisman of the California Department of Justice's Division of Gambling Control and again saw no action taken on her behalf.
In a telephone interview, Broome said, "I am no longer employed by the casino, and I have moved on." He does not believe he was properly served with the lawsuit, and he has no attorney. (Smith says that may have been true, but he has since been properly served.) He has declined further comment, saying only, "The lawsuit is full of slanderous allegations by vindictive individuals."
After a detail-rich story about the lawsuit appeared in the Sacramento Bee in January 2005, Lyons and her family were mortified. "My family is in shock," she says. "When the story hit the paper, my husband had to put up with a lot of comments. I don't know how to explain it to my children."
"I go through cycles of anger," she continues. "It's almost been like a death. We all cling together, taking things one day at a time. But as a family, we know this is the right thing to do."
If the case ever comes to trial, Lyons' personal history and her motivations will no doubt be closely examined. Howard Dickstein has suggested that Lyons' troubled marriage and her history of taking people to court somehow taint her lawsuit against the casino. Debra Smith retorts that people lead complex lives and bad things can happen to anyone.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
Tuesday morning, Nov. 15, dawned bright and crisp in the hilly town of Auburn, the seat of Placer County. The plaintiffs, fashionably dressed, strolled through the old yellow courthouse. The lawyers from Equal Rights Advocates brought up the rear.
After a recitation of the Pledge of Allegiance, Placer County Superior Court Commissioner Margaret Wells seated herself. She was there to rule on whether the women had the right to sue in light of Indian sovereignty laws.
The ERA's Debra Smith stepped up to the bar. In a clear voice, she explained why the Thunder Valley lawsuit should be allowed to proceed. The court had jurisdiction, said Smith, because the tribe had failed to protect the women's civil rights. She argued that the tribe's sovereign immunity from lawsuits was trumped by the equal rights provided to all people by the constitutions of California and the United States. She said that the state never intended for tribes to be able to use the tool of sovereignty to take away the civil rights of others. She said it was especially wrong to let a tribe's business partners hide behind Indian sovereignty.
Ruling against Smith, Wells threw the case out of court. "It's a question of law," she said, without elaborating.
The Thunder Valley women and their somber attorneys regrouped on the courthouse lawn, disappointed, but more determined than ever. "We will seek review of the court's final order before the 3rd Appellate District," Smith declared the next day.
The women understand the power of the tribes and Las Vegas. But they also know there is a growing backlash against casino proliferation in California and around the country. Public opinion may compel state legislatures and Congress to curtail abuse of the doctrine of sovereign immunity -- long before their case exhausts the appeal process.
Lyons remains undaunted. "I was taught as a child to stand up for what is right, regardless of public opinion, and to fear no one but God. I know this is going to sound corny, but I choose to remain forever an optimist, regardless of how miserable the situation may be."
About the writer
Peter Byrne is an investigative journalist who lives in Petaluma, Calif.
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